Nullifier
by Aedalena
Summary: Harry Potter, the first nullifier since Salazar Slytherin, doesn't feeling like playing the hero. But when he goes back to the time of the Founders to learn from Slytherin himself, he finds himself in the middle of a war, trapped by enemies old and new.
1. Monologue

**Author**: Aedalena  
**Summary**: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
**Notes regarding OotP/HBP Compatibility**: Everything really occurred the same during OotP except that Sirius did not die during Harry's rescue attempt at the Department of Mysteries. Sixth year, Harry didn't have to suffer through the grieving process, and was able to spend his summer with Sirius and Remus. Snape kept teaching Potions. Harry studied the subject on his own time, with Remus' help. Dumbledore has the "hand," but is still alive. And I have taken very big liberties with Dumbledore's character, though since we are seeing this through Harry's eyes, keep in mind that you are seeing a very biased view of the (mostly) kind headmaster we know.  
**This chapter:** Harry would like to share some of his problems with you.  
**_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._**

**NULLIFIER  
_Prologue_**

"_The world is a dangerous place to live; not just because of the people who are evil, but because of the people who don't do anything about it." –Albert Einstein_

The politically correct term for someone like me would be "nullifier." Most people don't bother with it, and when they're being nasty, some spit out an accusatory "vacuum." Like it's my fault and I can help being anything else. Like it's something to be _ashamed_ about (which it isn't). Though I used to pretend back at Hogwarts that I didn't mind, I did. Now that I'm out of school, I can actually do something about it. Shove my wand in the face of whoever thinks he's being clever, for example.

Do I still mind? Not as much—I eventually realised that people are, on the average, ignorant, superstitious, and stupid. What they say doesn't matter, except in the unlikely event that I ever decide to run for office. Still, it's no great thrill to go through life listening to whispers behind your back. I mean, yes, it's _accurate_—blunt, but accurate—and, yes, I've been called far worse for doing or being far less ("Chosen One" springs instantly to mind, may the propagandist who coined that phrase roast forever in the deepest pits of hell), but can't I indulge in self-delusion at least a little? In peace?

Oh, you must be lost. Don't fret; I'd get lost in my thoughts too, if I didn't know myself so well. What in the name of Merlin is a nullifier, you are wondering? Good question! Just what I asked those few years ago when I learned that yes, it is indeed possible to be more of a "freak" than I already am, to borrow another loving epithet bestowed upon me by the Dursleys. Figures that all they'd leave me with was bitter childhood memories and a bad vocabulary. What is the politically correct term they use nowadays? "Different"? "Special"? But I digress. I often do.

The encyclopaedia entry takes up several pages, which says a great deal about the size of the bloody massive tome I found it in, since nullifying is a rare and obscure and nearly forgotten branch of magic. I fell asleep halfway through it, and considered it an accomplishment to have made it that far. Did they hire Binns to write it, I wonder? I won't inflict it on you. Condensing several hundred words into one sentence: a nullifier is a witch or wizard that can absorb any magic or magical effect without being harmed by it. In less glorious days, we proud few (though by "we" I fear I am greatly exaggerating) were implemented as human shields in epic magical battles. With no offence intended to those who long for the "good old days"…I'm glad to be living _now._

I'll be the first to admit that modern times aren't exactly the best. The fourteenth century had the Black Death. We have Voldemort. The number of doomsayers predicting the end of the world has increased a hundred fold since his return, which I suppose is really more an annoyance than anything else. Despite Ollivander's mysterious reappearance during my seventh year, his wand shop has remained closed, though he does accept special commissions and deliver them via owl. Can't blame him for being paranoid. He never did say where he was or what happened to him that year he disappeared. The Three Broomsticks closes at dusk, which is really lacking in business sense, if you ask me—which no one ever does unless it's something uncomfortably personal.

The widespread fear and panic, the weekly casualty reports, the pervading despair... Wars happen. Often, as anyone who's ever studied a history book will be aware of. People die. Yes, Voldemort's forces have killed people. Good people. We've managed to kill a few "evil" people ourselves. I'd like to point out that both kinds of people did indeed occasionally die before Voldemort's time, fantastic though the notion may seem to some.

Sorry. Back to the subject, lest I ramble for hours. What's so significant about the fact that I'm a nullifier? For starters, there hasn't been one for centuries—since the time of the founders. I should be so lucky to be the first nullifier since Salazar Slytherin. I can appreciate the irony now, but when my strange antimagical abilities started to manifest during my sixth year, I wasn't amused. More like worried sick: about my friends, my life (or impending lack thereof), and Voldemort's growing power.

The years have educated me. I've since learnt that my friends can fend for themselves. After leaving Hogwarts, Ron married Hermione, as anyone at Hogwarts could have predicted. What no one expected was for them to divorce a mere year after the wedding. Neither offered much of an explanation. Ron jokingly refers to it as the "anniversary present from hell," when I can get him drunk enough to discuss his days of...blissful matrimony with my other best friend. Similar efforts to lower Hermione's inhibitions enough to spill have thus far failed miserably. She could drink Hagrid under the table, I think. I'm the one who ends up under the scalpel.

Ron's misfortunes didn't end there. One day, I received an owl post from him. His letter was blunt and to the point: he needed time away from the wizarding world. I couldn't blame him. Bill died in the first wave of Voldemort's attacks. Charlie nearly died as well, and took the better part of a year recovering. He moved to the States to live as a Muggle. Last I heard, he was happily married to a Muggle woman, and they're raising scores of redheaded children. I don't talk to him as much as I'd like. He says he prefers not to receive owls and that telephones are too much like magic for him to be entirely comfortable with them. I really should visit sometime,.

Hermione has moved on with her life with an admirably matter-of-fact attitude. She joined the Ministry of Research and splits her time evenly between love affairs with books and love affairs with male colleagues. No one could have guessed our Hermione would turn out to be such a heartbreaker. She's brilliant as ever, of course. The world would be in a far bigger mess than it is now, if not for some of her more innovative discoveries, like her "smart" traps. She's still a terrible nag, too. She spends whatever spare time she manages to scrounge up trying to convince me to "take more interest in the world."

I don't mean to be flippant—well, okay, maybe I do—but the world has taken enough interest, favourable and negative, in me for the both of us. Don't even get me started on the ministry's glorified police hounds of our world, the Aurors. If _one_ more knocks hesitantly at my door or owls me asking for help, I'm going to pull a Ron and leave. Move to...I don't know, New Zealand, find myself some nice Unplottable property, live out the rest of my days as a hermit.

Oh, I know. The whole lot aren't so teeth gnashingly irritating. Sirius and Remus—who, as an exconvict and a "fearsome" werewolf are probably your least likely candidates for that occupation—somehow allowed themselves to be talked into becoming Aurors, and they're mostly decent. Tonks, too. She's fun, good when you need a laugh—but for the most part, I find myself more likely to be fleeing Aurors than Death Eaters. Sad, I know.

And now, the question you're all thinking but haven't voiced yet: why isn't the famous Harry Potter—the hallowed _Chosen One_—embarked on a mad quest of suicidal revenge upon the most powerful (not to mention evil) wizard since the start of historical records who eats junior Aurors for breakfast?

Yes, I thought that it was a stupid question too. Not how you would have put it? Oh, please.

Why be involved in just another power play? The ministry and Dumbledore versus Voldemort? Don't misunderstand me—I know that the former are far preferable to the latter. But I'm tired of losing people, and I'm not ashamed to admit to some selfishness where my life is concerned. And there is the indisputable fact that involving me in anything more complicated than a game of Exploding Snap usually results in it rapidly boiling over. Call me the living, breathing catalyst. That'll be one of the nicer things someone's said about me.

I'm doing everyone a _favour_ by not participating. Why does the wizarding world have such a problem with that? They don't have the excuse of knowing about the prophecy; they just appointed me saviour of the world while I wasn't looking. What makes them think I could even defeat Voldemort? Then again, maybe they don't. It would read like a great tragedy, the hero confronting the great evil, perishing in his ultimately futile attempt to vanquish it. Or maybe they really are so desperate now that they think that I can.

Either way, they're as good as wishing me dead. Terribly nice of them, but it'd be even nicer to accept my decision. After what I've gone through on their behalf, they're lucky I haven't snapped and started playing dress-up with black cloaks and white masks myself.

Not that I'm bitter. But—oh, I suppose there's no fooling you, much less myself; self-delusion only works as long as you can look yourself in the eye and lie and believe it. I'm afraid I have a hard time taking myself at face value anymore. Yes, I am _bitter,_ and it all comes back (yes, this discourse does indeed have a point!) to being a nullifier.

I always assumed that Albus Dumbledore was a great man. He has the intelligence, the obligatory eccentricity you find in geniuses, even that grandfatherly twinkle in his eyes that all but screams "wise old coot." I used to think he was the best thing since self-stirring cauldrons. But of course, good things tend not to last long.

This particular good thing ended one wintery day when he summoned me to his office. He'd been presented with an unexpected offer: he could end the war. All he had to do was deliver me to Voldemort. By then, Voldemort knew the prophecy and knew that before his plans could progress he'd need to remove a certain Harry J. Potter from his path. More than remove; obliterate.

Now before you accuse Dumbledore of senility for trusting Voldemort, allow me to speak a word in his defence. Listen well: it will be the last time I do so. The gist of the prophecy is that Voldemort is the only person who can kill me and vice versa. Maybe Dumbledore thought that by initiating our deciding battle then, while Voldemort had yet to fully regain his strength, I would have a chance. Maybe it was his way of ensuring that he would be there when it did happen to help out. Or maybe—sorry, I'm getting ahead of myself. And making excuses for him again—damn, I told myself I'd stop doing that.

As I said, that day, Dumbledore summoned me to his office. It wasn't unusual; I'd been taking a few lessons with him, mostly trying to discover Voldemort's weaknesses by studying memories in Dumbledore's pensieve. This time, though, he invited me to take a walk with him. I didn't even realise what was happening until we were right before the Supreme Arse himself.

Maybe Dumbledore did have some plan up his overly large sleeves. I don't care. He didn't tell me anything, didn't give me any warning whatsoever. More likely I was the currency to be used in a deal that would buy the wizarding world a handful of years to prepare themselves for a big fight against Voldemort. Why? Well, you know Voldemort. He's Salazar Slytherin's biggest fan; I'll bet he wanted to study me and find the secrets of my nullifying capabilities before disposing of me. Messily and painfully and permanently. Or maybe he'd read the same text and was contemplating using me as a shield. Neither of which possibilities are very appealing.

Luckily, I did have a few brain cells to rub together back then, despite what some people think about Gryffindors. I had a tentative grip on my nullifying magic—which is to say, I closed my eyes, waved my hands around, and hoped the stuff that blew up wasn't me—and I got myself the hell out of there, probably surprising a few years off both wizards' lives. Good, the fewer years they have left, the better for me. My well being, my peace of mind, you name it.

There was nowhere else to go at the time. I returned to Hogwarts, and Dumbledore tried to cover up the exchange by claiming that the "incident" (quotes so implied, I could almost see them hanging in the air) had been a trap for Voldemort. Hm, yes, and Snape is going to visit a hairdresser once during his lifetime. What's there to say? I joined the Dumbledore Is a Manipulative Bastard Club that year, and no sad looks from said bastard, no disappointed stares from the teachers, and not a single one of my friends' protestations was able to change my mind.

It wasn't a good year for me, as the best thing I can say it is that the Slytherins were so impressed by my turnabout that they offered to grant me the status of "honourary member" of their house. Except Snape, who hated me even more, and refused to allow anything of the sort. But then, there is nothing on this earth I could possibly do to please him. The fact that I breathe is almost enough to ruin the whole process for him.

At the end of my seventh year, Dumbledore finally dared approach me again and pled for me to reconsider my decision not to join the bloody "Order of the Phoenix." I wasn't fooled. He was just irked that Fawkes had for some reason showed up at the tower one night and settled in with me. Can't have the Order without their mascot, can we? I told him to sod off. It was unexpectedly liberating. I can't blame the poor phoenix. Fawkes splits his time between Dumbledore's office at Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place; Remus is especially fond of him, and judging by the way he trills whenever Remus walks into the room, I'd have to say the bird feels the same. Of course, Remus feeds him chocolate, so it's not his force of personality alone.

After Hogwarts, the media became nasty (though by this point, I was past being surprised by anything they said or did in regards to me). Voldemort, in what I want to call a sudden change of heart (but harbour serious doubts as to whether or not he actually possesses a heart), applauded my defiant behaviour and left me alone, no doubt to plot nefarious attempts on either my life or sanity. This, of course, led to wild and often hysterical speculation that the wild card of the wizarding world, poster boy and everyone's favourite pawn, Harry Potter, had taken up with Voldemort, which, now that I think about it, that was probably his aim all along: to stir up more trouble for me.

Talk about fickle. From poster boy of the Light Side to fallen wizard over the course of a summer. Me? Join Voldemort? Pardon me while I collapse into convulsive laughter. I don't think that there was ever a more misunderstood bloke than me. Or at least, as widely misunderstood a bloke.

Still, not much has changed since I left school. Life has settled into a predictable routine, except for the odd attack. I receive death threats in the mail, which I read, chortle over, and cheerfully send back with a now-infamous Muggle photo of me making a rather impolite and immature gesture. To my undying amusement I am ranked as the number one cause of high blood pressure in wizarding Britain. I receive no less than half a dozen fervent declarations of eternal love made by rebellious teenage witches each week. How many of those declarations are repeats I'm afraid to ponder. How many are from witches old enough to be my mother, even more so.

I suppose there are some days I wish I'd grow up a bit more. But...why? I'd only be growing up to die. The best thing anyone can do is live in the present: no worries over the future, no brooding over the past. So that's what I do. Live now; it's the only real way to live forever.

But my past doesn't seem content to let me be.

Dumbledore sent me a letter yesterday, and after I sifted through the conciliatory shite, I found myself quite at a loss how to reply. He wants me to go back in time, you see. To the time of the founders. For no apparent reason.

He's up to something.

He wrote that it's time for me to come home…and Merlin save me, but I almost agree with him. Hey, I said _almost_. Not saying I miss Hogwarts or anything. Much. Still, it might be nice to see the old castle again, even if it has to be with some doddering old witches and wizards. At least if he's leading me into another trap this time, I won't be bored.

...does that mean I'm going to cooperate with Dumbledore? Well, I—bugger.

Revised: 26 Oct 2005


	2. Encounters

**Author:** Aedalena  
**Summary**: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
**_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._ **  
**This chapter:** Harry takes Dumbledore up on his offer—perhaps a bit sooner than the headmaster might have wished. And, with his usual grace, Harry manages to make a fresh batch of enemies. Mmm, enemies.

**NULLIFIER  
_Chapter One: Encounters_**

"_Once you become famous, there is nothing left to become but infamous."_ –Don Johnson

* * *

The only explicit content in Dumbledore's letter was the conditions of our meeting—the rest was so thoroughly drenched in ambiguity that I could read three different meanings into the greeting alone. He didn't come right out and say time travel, though I assumed that was what he meant. And there was no specific mention of the founders, but I could see no other way to interpret it. Why the obtuseness? Afraid that the post might be intercepted, perhaps. Though why Dumbledore hadn't thought to simply have Sirius or Remus deliver the letter to me, I didn't know.

Dumbledore requested we meet somewhere informal, the Three Broomsticks. Clever. I already felt myself relaxing in the familiar, cosy atmosphere. And the half dozen butterbeers I'd finished perhaps contributed a small part to that end. Anything stronger would compromise my ability to hold my own against Dumbledore, and I couldn't risk it.

Working with a calmer, more pliable Harry Potter was likely not the only thing Dumbledore wanted. Doubtless he wanted me as far from his school and students as possible. No telling what a dangerous nullifier like me might do to the only home I ever had. I might redecorate or something.

I rolled my eyes and glanced at my watch, clearing my throat in delicate irritation. Dumbledore was already late. Long minutes passed, and though I'm generally patient, I don't often make allowances for my enemies. Or—I supposed I wasn't quite ready to call Dumbledore an enemy. Not-friend, then. Anyway, I knew what he was doing: trying to make me anxious, so I'd think less about what he was saying and more about our past arguments and let him get the upper hand in the conversation. Rather Slytherin for an alleged Gryffindor, but he wasn't the only one who knew those tricks.

Before I could truly work myself into a good Dumbledore-bashing mind frame (unfortunate, since it was one of the most satisfying of moods), a straight figure in a dazzlingly bright blue robe entered the tavern. His hood was up, and he had on enough concealment charms to short out a good-sized Muggle home. That was the only explanation for the tavern patrons' lack of regard….I couldn't imagine any other way they'd be able to ignore the little dancing golden stars on the hems, which were slightly extravagant even for the flambouyant wizarding fashions of the day. Or any day, really.

I'd recognised the man at his first step through the door. A taste in clothing that would make Flitwick look like a fashion genius. The audacity to enter the same room as a notorious nullifier (_the_ notorious nullifier, if we're being technical) while smothered under layers of spells. That blatant cotton floss-pink magic that came from only one wizard. Only one wizard was so cloyingly, inherently "good." Fortunately for him, I was probably the only person able to see through his deception, short of Mad Eye Moody. Neither of us wanted Voldemort to learn of our meeting. I didn't even want to think about how he'd react to the threat of us reconciling.

"Your appreciation for punctuality has lessened over the years, Dumbledore," I said quietly—there was no reason to take any chances—letting none of my impatience show as he approached. "Old age finally catching up with you?"

The aged headmaster put a hand on my shoulder and started leading me away from the crowded entrance, to the more secluded tables. Either he wanted to murder me where it wouldn't be noticed, or he wanted some privacy. I grudgingly bet on the latter.

"I realise that we've disagreed in the past, Harry, but please understand—"

"I don't need to understand anything," I interrupted smoothly, trying not to let any anger colour my voice as I shrugged his hand off my shoulder. Disagreed? It would be less of an understatement to call the ocean a "slightly wet." But—enough. There would be time to stew later. I carefully reorganised my thoughts; should I bring up the letter yet? I didn't want too sound too eager; if he thought I wanted it so badly, he might ask for more in return. "You said that you could send me away from here. Get me what I need, and I'll be out of your way forever."

A few murmurs rose from some nearby wizards, who had somehow picked up on the venom beneath our quiet exchange. I shot an evil glare in that direction, and faced with the ire of unpredictable Harry Potter, the offenders chose to subside. They quickly moved to a distant table, intimidated into silence. Dumbledore sighed in disappointment. I didn't comment; maybe his great, big heart would just burst someday and leave my life a whole lot happier. My conscience twinged, registering the thought as unwarranted, but my conscience should be used to being ignored by now.

He glanced down and finally noticed that his hands were no longer charmed and—wait, was that a _hand_? I stared. It was twisted into almost a claw, blackened and dead-looking. My gaze flicked to his other hand. Normal. I scrutinised the other hand more closely, and reached out tentatively with my nullifying senses. Nothing. I laid my own hand on it, and recoiled when black flashed across my vision, withholding a started gasp. That was a powerful curse, the first I'd encountered that I doubted I could nullify. Not that I would have, of course, without something in return from Dumbledore.

I opened my mouth to ask where Dumbledore had encountered so dark a curse, but he spoke first. "You've nullified my charms," he said, and he sounded like he approved, damn him. "And don't worry about the hand. Our best healers tell me there is nothing that can be done for it. Nevertheless, that was very impressive."

"I suppose it's impressive enough," I remarked, feeling cheated that my usual tactics had, of course, failed to unnerve him. It was practically my motto: Harry Potter, flapping the unflappable. And here I was being the one flapped. Wasn't he at the very least worried about the repercussions if I nullified the rest of his charms and word reached Voldemort of our meeting? Then again, he probably knew I would be reluctant to risk that. "But it's bloody annoying when I can't control it. Anyone who might be able to help just so happens to be...dead."

I actually had pretty good control over my nullifying most of the time, but it couldn't hurt to play it up some. Hopefully that implicit offer in the letter hadn't been just wishful thinking. No, I was certain—it had to be more than that. Why else would he send me back to the founders' time if not to learn how to better control my nullifying? If he'd meant the founders. Which I was sure he did. Hoped.

"Exactly what I was planning to discuss with you, Harry—"

"Should we really be on a first name basis, Dumbledore? I am hardly one of your students anymore." It was petty. I knew and said it anyway; you take what you can, because you never know when you might have the opportunity again. And if somehow I got stuck back there, I might never.

He didn't really react—just looked tired and slightly disappointed, which left me feeling like I'd kicked a puppy or something. "Very well. Mr Potter, what would you think of being mentored by an expert in the nullifying field?"

That glow of excitement I hadn't quite allowed to surface kindled in my heart. I was right. And now, time to play the innocent. Well, as innocent as he'd believe. Hopefully I was proficient enough in my Occlumancy to let nothing slip. "Everyone who knows anything about nullifying is long dead and buried. So unless you really are suggesting that you really do have a way to send me back in time..."

"I am. You know I wouldn't have owled you for less, H-Mr Potter," said Dumbledore patiently. "I have indeed acquired the means to send you back to the early days of Hogwarts."

He sounded like a character out of a Muggle soap opera. I'd never heard anything said so dramatically cheesy. I could imagine what my reaction should be. My eyes would widen in sudden hope and the world right itself and everyone become deliriously happy because I was being offered a chance to redeem myself. I'd declare my undying affection for furry forest creatures and glare heroically at Voldemort, who'd die, as mortified by the sugary goodness of Redeemed Harry as me.

Instead of voicing any of my thoughts, I addressed a more pertinent issue. "How do you plan to do that? Voldemort destroyed our most powerful time-travel devices when he attacked the Ministry of Artefacts. And time-turners don't have the range for anything further back than a century, if you managed to salvage some of those."

Dumbledore reached into the folds of his robes and pulled out a gleaming orb of obsidian and silver. I studied it with open interest; I hadn't seen any time-travel aids other than Hermione's time-turner. She'd probably know what it was. Not so devoted to being a breathing encyclopaedia, I could only wait for Dumbledore to explain.

So I waited. And gave up. Then, the outline of a plan started forming in my mind.

"May I hold it?" I asked, shamelessly playing on his sympathy with an innocently curious expression. "It looks fascinating."

In case he tried to get a read on my thoughts, I mentally projected a scholarly curiosity and excitement. Pleased to have evoked such a cordial response, Dumbledore readily handed it over. "It is a Tempus Orb. There are two in existence, both of which were fortunately stored safely in the Department of Mysteries during the attack. The Ministry of Artefacts was persuaded to lend me the use of this one."

I wondered what concessions he'd had to make to convince the ministry to part with such a rare and powerful artefact as I turned the orb over in my hand for closer scrutiny. It fit nicely in my palm and was surprisingly cool. There was only the faintest whisper of magic within it. Other than that, it was indistinguishable from an ornate paperweight. The magic didn't feel complex enough for it to be an instrument of time travel. "So they did manage to keep a few goodies out of Voldemort's hands. How does it work?"

"It's much simpler than the time-turner," Dumbledore explained. "All a wizard need do is focus on a person from the time period he wishes to visit and speak the word that invokes the orb's enchantments. The magic immediately activates. It is not as precise as a time-turner, but I have some Order wizards searching for ways to improve its accuracy. I'd rather not drop you into the middle of a war if I can prevent it."

I frowned slightly. I would have to risk it; after all, what were the odds of me actually appearing in the midst of a war? Not a Muggle war. There were plenty of those, but they were far less frequent in the magical world. I took a deep breath and released it slowly. Okay. Now came the tricky part. I had to gently coax the invocation out of the headmaster. He'd close up the instant he suspected I was up to something. I couldn't let that happen.

"I can't believe I haven't heard of a Tempus Orb before. How long have they existed? Are they new?"

"They've been in existence for almost a thousand years, if records are to be believed. I came into possession of this particular one more than two decades ago, but I turned it in to the ministry. They are far better equipped to care for such objects. Sometimes there is no better hiding place than under the piles of paperwork generated by bureaucracy." He paused uncertainly as if contemplating saying something and then deciding against it. "Each orb is unique, so each has a different incantation to invoke it."

"Oh?" I said casually. "Latin?"

Dumbledore nodded. I thought for a moment. "Something having to do with motion? Moving?"

"Very good, Harry," he praised. I let that pass. "You're quite close. It's 'traveller,' actually."

I could have cackled in glee, but that would have been disturbing and not at all helpful to my already tattered reputation. But—that wouldn't matter in the past.

"Fascinating," I said, holding the orb up like a toast to the future—or the past, depending how you looked at it. I focussed on an old painting from my Hogwarts days. "Now, how does the Latin go? _Viator_."

There was a familiar jerking sensation, like I'd activated a portkey, but I had enough time to see confusion, astonishment, worry, and then rueful admiration flit across my former mentor's face before the Three Broomsticks disappeared.

A completely different world swirled into being before my eyes. For one long second I was suspended in the air, staring around the plush room of deep, forest greens and velvety blacks. Then, whatever invisible fist held me in suspension released me, and I dropped to the floor, no worse for the wear aside from a few bruises that wouldn't appear for a few hours. I was damnably prone to bruising.

The room's novelty quickly recaptured my attention. It was strange…I'd just bridged a millennium of history, and I was in a completely foreign world, yet I didn't feel any different. And where was I?

"'They change their climate, not their soul, who rush across the sea'," I murmured. Where had I heard that...? Remus, probably. He was always quoting old Greek philosophers.

The sound of approaching footsteps halted my reflections. My eyes flitted to the door of this strange room, and I grimaced as the steps halted and the doorknob turned. When the door opened to admit a tall, intimidating wizard who looked to be somewhere between thirty and forty, our eyes met in twin confusion and wariness.

"Hwa eart þu?" the man said coldly, his hand reaching instantly for his wand. I stared uncomprehendingly. Shit, tenth century, of _course_ they didn't speak English. Not as I would understand it. Before I could panic, he repeated himself, and this time I could feel something inside of me stir, a charm that must have been activated by the Tempus Orb when it deposited me, and his words began to make sense. "Who are you, and what are you doing in my office?"

I observed the wizard. Hair dark as mine, but not nearly as long. Taller than me, but shorter than Voldemort. A straight, aristocratic nose and dramatic cheekbones. Eyes a greyer shade of green than mine, slightly less vibrant. A familiarly slight build. A gap of a thousand years separated me and Salazar Slytherin, but we might as well be brothers. Or worse. I looked down so I could glare at the floor, which seem safer than glaring at Slytherin. I should bloody well have known I'd be related to my greatest enemy's hero.

"Wish I knew," I answered only half cheekily, relieved when he looked like he understood me.

Slytherin's irate stare didn't let up, and the air around me shivered at his anger. A master of intimidation: I half-seriously wondered if I should ask for lessons.

"Until you decide, I am going to wait right here. The instant I see you make a move that is threatening in the slightest, I will restrain you. If you attempt to resist, I will stun you. Anything further, and I will kill you."

Unusually blunt for a Slytherin…for the original Slytherin, in fact. Then again, when you have the upper hand, there's no need for subtlety. I sighed mentally. I _would_ alienate the one person I need to help me. I tried to think of something halfway rational to say but had to settle for a sliver of sanity.

"Harry Evans. I had to get away from a batty professor who had designs on my well-being."

For whatever reason, this startled the barest trace of a smile from Salazar Slytherin. Could I somehow redeem the situation and come out of it with a mentor? Until proven otherwise, I pushed any regrets about my treatment of Dumbledore firmly to the back of my mind.

Slytherin sighed and rubbed at his eyes with one hand. "A student, of all people. Now, to whom must I drag you by the ear? You don't have the look of one of Helga's, and I'd like to think that one of Godric's brats couldn't find his way into my office. Rowena's, then?"

Something like irritation heated my cheeks. I did not look like a student. Not much. I was a bit short, but that wasn't my fault!

"I am _not_ a student," I protested…and instantly regretted the words.

The other wizard's wand was suddenly pointed right back at me. I stared at it, partly amused and partly resigned. Fine, so it _hadn't_ been the most brilliant plan, catching a ride on a time vortex without much forethought. But did Fate _have_ to conspire against me?

"You are from Morass's camp, then."

He uttered the accusation with such ferocity I raised an eyebrow, even as I wondered who this Morass fellow was. "Well, I'm glad one of us is sure about something."

Slytherin narrowed his eyes and seemed to be contemplating which spell would be fittingly painful for me. "Who sent you? Thaddeus?"

I started mentally humming "The Twelve Days of Christmas" in my head. "Let's see...thousands of screaming fans, a hundred angry fathers, a dozen slandering newspapers, several former friends, an insane dark wizard, an insane idealistic wizard, and, of course, me. I'm fairly certain insanity had some part in it as well."

Noting that Salazar Slytherin still didn't look amused, I decided to start locating my own wand.

"I will give you one final chance to answer, spy," he said coldly. "What are you doing here?"

I could feel a headache starting up. "Presently? Arguing pointlessly with someone who's already made up his mind about who I am regardless of whatever I could possibly say in my defence."

The curse that should have knocked me out cold disappeared in a flash of white, and I had my first taste of Slytherin's magic. This also gave me the opportunity to watch Slytherin's face go white, but I was more interested by his magic. Far better than Dumbledore's, I decided. Smoother, flowing currents of magic. Liquefied power. Silver, which was a much more respectable colour than light pink.

Slytherin was too shocked to do anything, and I was too tired to try and convince him of my good intentions. Before he could recover, I darted past him, out of the room.

I raced down the thankfully deserted corridor, turned a corner, and collided with a trio of young students. They sprawled, I sprawled, and instinct took over. "Ten points from…" I squinted at them, and saw no house badges. Then I noticed the blue ribbon in one of the girls' hair and hastily guessed. "Ravenclaw!"

"Points?" asked one.

"Yes," I said. "New policy. The house with the most points at the end of the year receives a trophy. Thanks to you three, your house is in the negatives."

I must have looked particularly ferocious or mad, because their eyes widened. One girl's lip trembled and she burst into frightened tears. I sprinted away. Really quite a heartless thing to do, pick on little kids, but hopefully they would create enough of a distraction I'd be able to slip away. With luck, the statue guarding the passage to Hogsmeade would exist.

I saw it, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then I ran into another person and realised the massive error of bowling over _this_ witch the instant I saw her face.

"Bugger," I breathed from my graceless position on the floor.

"Now, is that any way to speak to a lady?" Rowena Ravenclaw asked, flowing to her feet like the fall had been contrived. She stared at me hard for a second. "You're—who might you be?"

Her wand was already brandished, and I could see _another_ familiar face rounding the corner.

"Ah, excellent work, Rowena," Salazar Slytherin said, drawing his wand. "I'll take care of this now."

* * *

Revised: 20 November, 2005


	3. Dealings

**Author:** Aedalena  
**Summary:** Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that efndeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._  
**This chapter:** Harry encounters further difficulties in the past, while Dumbledore approaches Hermione with a shocking request.

**NULLIFIER  
_Chapter Two: Dealings_**

"_The last temptation is the greatest treason: To do the right deed for the wrong reason."_ –T.S. Eliot

* * *

Salazar Slytherin had definitely recovered. And he looked like he wanted answers. Now. Twenty seconds ago. It took no small amount of magic to subdue a nullifier, but one glance at the cold anger—and curiosity, perhaps?—in Slytherin's eyes convinced me that he'd have no trouble. At all. How did I get myself into these situations? Five minutes! I hadn't even been here five minutes...

Rowena Ravenclaw's face softened marginally in sympathy, and I knew it. I was verily screwed.

"What if I promise to never bother either of you _ever_ again?" I suggested. "I didn't mean to—a complete mistake. Wrong address. Happens all the time, I'm pants with directions."

"Keep your wand ready, Rowena," said Slytherin, as if he hadn't heard a single word. "He's a nullifier."

I caught her startled intake of breath, but was more absorbed with the two wands levelled at my eyes. Bugger. There was no way I would reach mine quickly enough. Well, I thought dazedly as I tensed, preparing to spring away from the two armed and capable-looking wizards, maybe next time you'll think before you jump blindly into an unknown situation, unprepared. If you're lucky enough to get a next time.

"What's this?" called a confused voice from the other end of the corridor. Dark-haired, a burgundy robe just a few shades short of black, an athletic sort of springy energy. Godric Gryffindor. "Salazar, Rowena, what are you—?"

Fate is a sick, twisted, sadistic bitch and I love her; who else would send me into near cardiac arrest and then provide me with a means of escape the next moment? I silently thanked my original head of house for his excellent, if unintentional, distraction and whispered the password to the old witch's statue out of the corner of my mouth. As soon as the passage opened wide enough for me to fit through, I dove into the moist, earthy darkness of the tunnel.

Shouts and the happy sounds of chaos echoed behind me, and grew muffled as the passage swung shut. Straining to hear, I could pick up snippets of arguments—Salazar telling Godric off and Rowena trying to be the cool voice of logic, to little avail. I was profoundly grateful that Hufflepuff wasn't there, because then they might have done something sensible...like follow and subdue me. I used this unexpected respite to catch my breath. Then I heard, very clearly, a shouted "Enough!" from Slytherin, and felt the enchantments on the statue flicker.

Slytherin might or might not be able to force his way past the statue's enchantments, but I wasn't about to trust in chance. I'd had far too many painfully memorable encounters with Sod's Law for that, so I sprinted through the long passage. The dim glow of my wand lit only the barest of area; I did not want to attract attention, of good intent or ill. I had no idea if anything lived down here, but with my formidable luck, something would. Probably malevolent. And carnivorous.

It was minutes later, stumbling out of the dark tunnel, that I felt like I had some sliver of control over events. Hogsmeade. The small wizarding town managed to be both haven and cage at once, depending on the ever-changing whims of the papers and disapproving wizard population. At home, anyway. I hear I have a large support base over in Switzerland. I always did like the Swiss.

Fame and public opinion, however, were reassuringly distant for the time being, so I took stock of my surroundings. Hogsmeade was much smaller than its present day incarnation, both primitive and incongruously _newer_. The store fronts were completely different from any I could recall seeing, but the basic layout was familiar. Buildings come and go, but streets rarely change. I was fairly certain the anti-apparation wards didn't extend this far, so I would have that venue at least, should it come to that.

I stepped out into the fading light of a crimson dusk, brushing small flecks of dust and dirt off my black robes as I tried to decide where to go. The buildings around me were limned in a depressing red. I hated to think what the colouring would look like against the black of my hair. I grimaced. How _had_ my hair fared? Or did I truly want to know?

I brushed one hand over the loosely tied strands of unruly black, a fashion shamelessly filched from Sirius—slightly frayed, at least one thing had survived the many encounters of the day relatively unscathed. With a sigh of annoyance, relief, and settling irritation, I set off at a slow walk.

I could go to Diagon Alley, I supposed. I knew London existed. It followed that Diagon Alley would. I recalled the old, faded sign outside Ollivander's: "makers of fine wands since 382 BC." Hopefully that meant the store had existed for as long. No—better to just apparate as far from here as I could, and use the Tempus Orb to get back to my time. But then, that would be admitting defeat, and Dumbledore would promptly confiscate the orb. And I'd be right back where I'd been before receiving the letter, except Dumbledore would get the "I told you so" rights.

No. I would wait it out a bit. I'd only been here—what? Far less than an hour. Maybe Slytherin could still be persuaded, once I proved I wasn't whatever it was he thought me to be. A spy of Morass?

"Right, and how am I going to convince him of that?" I asked the cooling evening air accusingly. "He clearly thinks I'm guilty, and the fact that I ran away probably isn't going to endear me to him any."

"What's the matter? You seem out of place," a voice behind me murmured. "Not wise to be wandering alone at night."

I started, strangling a surprised yelp. I hadn't heard anyone approach, and while I had been distracted, my senses rarely failed me. Though I supposed I should've known by now to expect the unexpected. Fervently hoping I wasn't making a mistake, I turned around.

I found myself staring at a nightmare, and it was all I could do to keep myself from backing up. Next to this—creature? no, wizard—Voldemort looked downright human. He wore the shadows like a cloak, the flowing, swirling darkness surrounding him nearly indistinguishable from his black robes. His face was obscenely pale against the black, and I mistook it at first for a mask. The only colour came from his eyes, a red-brown that flickered and burned with a cold madness.

I reached out with my nullifying senses so I would have an idea of what I faced. Nothing. I'd never felt nothing from a person. But—it wasn't, I realised an instant later. Rather, it was an intense blackness so vast I couldn't detect where it ended and reality began. I tore myself away, gripped with an inexplicable terror that I'd be drawn in myself if I stared for too long.

He smiled at me, a chilling, satisfied smile, and I felt suddenly weak and sick. My gaze was drawn to something he held in one of his hands: a delicate, crystal shell of deep bloodstone. It shone with an unnatural glow that pulsed in time with the weakness washing over me. I couldn't tear my eyes away from it, though I knew, desperately, that I absolutely had to if I wanted to survive. Waves of fatigue assaulted my body, a tingly urge to _sleep_. The man advanced, the shell grew closer and the pounding feeling of exhaustion grew stronger. The light kept pulsing hypnotically.

My fingers were too clumsy now to even hold my wand. Fighting the numbness growing in my mind, I reached instead for that magic I'd absorbed from Dumbledore and Slytherin, and focussed it into a ray of white-hot flame and released it through the palm of my hand.

It should have incinerated the wizard, a fact I knew from several hastily covered-up accidents during my formative years as a nullifier. Ash was unbelievably difficult to get out of carpet... But this being wasn't human, couldn't be.

It only threw him back a few metres, so I didn't waste any time; I fumbled for my wand as he rose again to his feet. Still holding the shell in one hand, he raised the other, and the heaviness of an anti-apparation charm settled in the air. Wandless magic; what a bloody fantastic day. I looked heavenward.

"And if I promise to never dishonour my elders again?" I asked, still dazed.

The sky muttered darkly, and I took it as a "no." Luckily, I remembered the Tempus Orb. I could just use it to change my location... I reached into my pockets. Unluckily, the orb wasn't there. And the strange man drew ever closer, slowly, cornering me against a tall stone building.

"Dumbledore," I mumbled, backing up slightly and preparing to break into a sprint to...wherever, as long this wizard wasn't there. "I'm going to kill you. Or do I have that wrong? Maybe I should kill _me_. Assuming this thing doesn't kill me first."

"Salazar. An unlooked for boon to find you alone, away from the castle's defences," said the other wizard, his caricature of a smile widing slightly.

I almost laughed, half out of hysteria. All of my life, I'd been attacked because I was instantly recognisable as the famous Harry Potter. Now, in a place that I should have been anonymous, one more black-haired, green-eyed wizard, I was attacked because I looked like Salazar bleeding Slytherin.

There was no sense wasting good breath that could be used for running. Or in giving in to hysteria. I turned and ran, sprinting behind a nearby building, straining to listen for sounds of pursuit as my feet padded across the cobbled road. They obligingly manifested, and I kept running, passing another building, taking a sharp turn behind another, eyes open for the store that housed the return passage to Hogwarts.

But that would lead this...dark wizard to the students, I realised. Then, why should I care? I didn't owe anything to Hogwarts.

"Except your life, sanity, friends..." I muttered, trying to break through the persistent grogginess that refused to leave me.

I ran on, in the blind hope that I'd run straight into salvation. Instead, I ran into my pursuer as I rounded a corner, almost literally. He stood waiting, as if expecting me. His calm certainty chilled and unnerved me so badly, I nearly dropped my wand in despair. But I took a deep breath, marshalling my courage. I hadn't been in Gryffindor for nothing. I drew my wand again.f

"I must say, I did not expect you to make so grave an error of judgment, Salazar," the man said. "You know better than to leave the safety of your fortress without your dear cousin or Rowena. Even dumpy Helga would leave her precious students to escort you, if you truly needed to venture out."

"If anyone's making a grave error of judgment it's you, because I'm _not_ Salazar, you nutter," I retorted, desperately searching through my memory for banishment spells. I'd heard good things about their effectiveness against demons. If this thing _was_ a demon.

"Indeed?" There was a long moment when that red gaze seemed to stare right into me, and the wizard frowned in slight confusion. "Indeed not. But Salazar or not, I see no need to waste a capable nullifier."

"Capable, my arse," I said shortly and threw the hardest banishing spell I knew at him.

It knocked him to the ground, and I backed up hopefully. The next instant, he was on his feet, holding out his shell and muttering a long string of an arcane language I couldn't recognise. My entire body seized up, and I stood frozen by whatever magic he had called up, helpless to do anything but breathe. As I fought not to give in to my growing fear, his gaze locked on mine and a strange feeling swept over me like when he'd stared at me before but amplified tenfold. It felt like dozens of tiny fingers were probing something—my magic? I couldn't even shudder, held almost completely motionless by his enchantment, but I flicked my gaze downward to escape those terrible eyes.

"Such an enigma. You taste like a Slytherin; enough that I mistook you for Salazar. Kin, perhaps? There is something familiar about you." The crawling sensation grew more pronounced. "And so young. You shouldn't exist. There are only twelve of us; there have only ever been twelve."

His form blurred and then appeared right in front of me. It was like apparation; one instant he'd been several metres away, the next within lunging distance. I struggled harder against the bonds of magic holding me immobile. They didn't budge.

"Who are you, child?" I wanted desperately to flinch back, but the same magic that held me motionless forced my eyes back up to meet the wizard's. He studied me and recognition seemed to flit across his pale features. "That can't be..." Whatever he'd discovered must have greatly amused him, because he let out a series of rasping chuckles. "How fortunate that I found you before he did. At last, some leverage in this stalemate."

He moved closer with a painful slowness. My nerves were so taut I almost wanted to scream at him to do what he was going to and be done with it. I restrained the impulse, though I wasn't sure if his spell would have permitted me even the release of a scream. I saw the predatory amusement in his eyes at my fear, and knew he was drawing this out deliberately. I knew instinctively that once he had physical contact with me, he could use that strange form of teleportation on me too, like side-along apparation. I put every ounce of energy I had into fighting his hold over me.

"Strong. But that's only to be expected." He reached out a hand to take hold of my arm.

A sudden flash of colour brought with it my salvation, or at least a lesser doom in the form of all four founders. But the anti-apparation wards? Oh, portkey.

"Step away from him, Morass!" said a dusky-skinned woman who I assumed was Helga Hufflepuff. "We won't let you have him."

I nearly fainted in relief as I felt the magic chaining me vanish with a wave of Slytherin's hand. No matter how angry the founders may be with me for invading their castle, it was a flicker to this wizard's malevolence. It might be trading one captivity for another, but...I was willing to risk it.

"The battle is yours, this night," the dark wizard conceded, stepping back from me warily as the four founders advanced on him. His next words were a promise. "But you will make another error, another misstep in your careful dance. And I will be watching."

He cast one more look of calm malice at me, a cooler one at Slytherin. Now that I was able to, I shuddered with relief as he disappeared, again bypassing his anti-apparation wards. Had it really been only a few hours since leaving Dumbledore and all his good intentions in the future? Had it even been one?

I tried to push the wizard, Morass, from my mind, but it wasn't easy. I flexed my fingers, just because I could, and savoured that small motion before gathering my thoughts. Focus on present affairs, I told myself. I had get into Slytherin's good graces and I would not accomplish that by running away again. At least I now knew who I was supposed to be spying for—and made it abundantly clear that I wasn't.

"You should come with us," said Helga Hufflepuff with a stern but kindly smile. I was uncomfortably reminded of both Albus Dumbledore and Madam Pomfrey. "Morass is no wizard to be trifled with, certainly not alone."

I shivered again at the enormity of that understatement. Then I searched their faces for something...genuine concern? Oddly enough, there was the slightest hint in Slytherin's face. Helga looked most compassionate for my cause; Rowena, a close second. Gryffindor was surprisingly inscrutable.

"I—I suppose," I said, completely out of clever rejoinders and clever plans and feeling utterly drained.

There are several methods of bypassing a nullifier's immunity to most magic. They probably could have knocked me over with jelly-legs jinx in my current state, but perhaps still a bit mistrusting of me and anxious that I didn't change my mind, they settled for the Muggle method: soundly whacking me on the back of the head with something heavy.

I gave unconsciousness slightly more than a passing notice; it had been a long time since I'd last had to deal with it. I'd thought those days were over. As everything faded to black, I decided that absence did _not_ make the heart any fonder.

* * *

"You realise, of course," stated the head researcher of the Ministry of Research, Hermione Granger, "that if your name wasn't Albus Dumbledore, and if I didn't know you actually _do_ have his best interests in mind, I'd introduce you to the door—and my foot."

Albus Dumbledore, headmaster of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry blinked very slowly, like a person confronted by an unpleasant truth he'd lived with for a long while but never really considered. The years and Harry Potter had combined to make Hermione Granger more than a little suspicious of authority. He sighed wearily with mixed regret and concern and mentally rolled up his sleeves. Convincing Harry Potter's strong-willed friend to aid him looked to be a daunting task, but it was heartening to see that the boy had such loyal friends and protectors.

"Miss Granger," he began, seemingly unruffled by her hostility, "prior to visiting Harry, I contacted Ronald Weasley, who has been watching over Harry for several years now. He agreed that the longer Harry remains in the past alone, the more likely it is that Voldemort will discover his absence and react. To say nothing of the dangers he might face as a result of using the Orb without the calibrations that would have greatly increased its accuracy."

Hermione turned her head to one side in a casually inquisitive manner that would have immediately sounded off alarms in any subordinate who saw her expression. "I don't entirely understand why," she asked with pleasant calm, "you chose to let Harry handle the orb. And why you chose not to inform me of this pleasant little jaunt into the past you had planned. And what in Merlin's name you thought you were doing, risking catastrophically changing the timeline. You do know that sending a person back a _thousand_ years into the past is just a bit different than an extra hour squeezed into the day with a time-turner?"

She frowned in thought. "I admit, some magical theorists postulate that the further back a trip is made, the easier for the past to correct itself to preserve the future, but even so vast a buffer as a thousand years can't—_can't_, headmaster—take into account the catalytic effect you _know_ Harry has on things. And there's almost as many who argue that the slightest change made could cause a rippling effect, and believe me, headmaster. You drop Harry that far into the past, and I assure you that we'll feel the waves."

She took a breath to continue, but Dumbledore held up a hand to forestall her. "And there is another school of thought that it is impossible to change the past, that everything that has happened, happened exactly as it was meant to. In which case, Harry was meant to go back."

"And was he meant to go back alone?" she asked pointedly.

A very long and stressful twenty-four hours had passed since Harry Potter disappeared with the Tempus Orb one thousand years into the past. Albus Dumbledore resisted the urge to rub his temples, reaching into one pocket instead in search of a stray sherbet lemon. His fingers closed around one, and he popped it into his mouth with relief. A small comfort, but a comfort nevertheless.

"No. In fact, he is in the most danger alone. I assembled a carefully chosen escort," he explained, "consisting of six Aurors and one Unspeakable."

Hermione stared at him. "Would that Unspeakable happen to be Ron?"

"Yes," Dumbledore admitted.

"You know that Harry still thinks Ron is living as a Muggle, don't you?"

"Yes. But if Harry hadn't—if we had had sufficient time to prepare, Mr Weasley would have been able to explain our reasons for the ruse. Whatever the circumstances, Harry would no doubt have been pleased to see his friend aga—"

"I don't know if you noticed," Hermione interrupted coolly, "but Harry hates being lied to almost as much as he distrusts you."

The sudden uneasiness that had been present since the hope of the wizarding world had disappeared into the past grew more tangible. In a world growing steadily more shadowed and dangerous, the time had come that Dumbledore found himself unable to protect Harry any longer. Curbing his instincts to shield the young wizard, he'd begun training Harry, until one day when he made a gross misjudgment, and lost Harry's trust. Dumbledore had been shocked at how sharp the break between them became, and how wide the rift. The slightly reserved, curious young student Dumbledore had always felt close to refused to even speak to him.

He'd thought that perhaps sending Harry to ancient Hogwarts would help heal the wounds wrought by Dumbledore's perceived betrayal. But that had been foolishly optimistic, he now realised. The wounds were too deep, and not just the ones caused by their breach of trust. This went beyond that, into some old scars of Harry's own. That, more than anything, Dumbledore held himself responsible for. He should have seen, should have noticed Harry's own securities and helped him conquer them. Now he could only wonder: had he lost another student through mishandling?

"Listen, headmaster," said Hermione, interrupting his thoughts. "I don't disagree with you. Harry needs someone to look after him, I just wish I knew how the bl—" She visibly reigned herself in. "I suppose it's better to focus on what we can do now rather than what you did wrong."

Dumbledore relaxed slightly. His plan had far greater a chance of succeeding with Hermione Granger's full cooperation.

"Harry is going to resent your interference no matter what, so I would suggest sending someone he trusts after him. Sirius or Remus would be best, and they'd certainly leap at the chance to spend some time with him."

Dumbledore remained ominously silent, and a sudden suspicion struck Hermione. "You do know where those two are?"

"There were...complications," he said finally. "The Tempus Orb was enchanted to transport Harry and his escort _at the same time_, under the presumption that they would have been fully briefed and gathered in one place."

"So you're telling me," Hermione said slowly, carefully, as though she was certain her hearing had failed her, "that there are _seven_ wizards running around one thousand years in the past without a _clue_ as to why they're there?"

"Oh, they know why, but the premature implementation will have them on their guard," Dumbledore explained, feeling only tired as he was confronted with the betrayed look on her face. This day came for each of his students; the day that they realised he was not infallible; some, like Harry, discovered this early on. Some, like Harry, did not realise he had never claimed to be.

"Let me guess. Two of your Aurors happen to be Sirius Black and Remus Lupin."

"Correct. Ronald Weasley, as you have guessed, is also among those lost in time."

Hermione blinked, obviously having forgotten that angle. "I must credit you, headmaster. When you botch things up, you certainly do so with your usual thoroughness. Remus and Sirius will be frantic, and I am profoundly grateful that I don't have to watch Ron explain his presence to Harry."

When Dumbledore continued to look speculatively at her, Head Researcher Granger felt a trill of alarm. "You wouldn't even be here if you didn't need something. You'd be sending half the Aurors in the country out to fetch Harry out of trouble without bothering tell me why my two friends are missing."

Realisation struck. "You don't even have your Orb anymore," she said very, very calmly in what was not even a question, "do you."

"Remus has it."

"Remus just so happens to be a millennium away."

"Yes, he does."

"No," she stated, shaking her head in stunned disbelief. "You can't possibly expect me to—the sheer preliminary work—magic on this scale hasn't been attempted since—"

"If there is one person capable of reconstructing a time travel device, I have no doubt that it would be yourself, Miss Granger. But that is not what I need from you. There is not enough time."

"Not enough time?" Hermione repeated, her voice beginning to lose its calm objectivity. "What's going on there?"

"You don't know?" Dumbledore frowned. "Professor Binns is clearly neglecting the history of Hogwarts, perhaps in the erroneous assumption that most students will have read _Hogwarts, A History_. Do you remember reading about the First Siege of Hogwarts?"

"It sounds familiar, but I think the book was unusually vague about it."

"It is because of the siege that I felt it necessary to increase the orb's accuracy. From about the time of the founding of Hogwarts, there will be an attempt by a powerful dark wizard to seize control of Britain. He will fight the governing council to a stalemate, and Hogwarts will be the greatest stronghold of the Light. The dark wizard, Morass, has gathered together every nullifier he can to dismantle the castles defences, and the siege will last for years."

"Oh, Harry." Hermione covered her eyes with one hand. "There's just no escape for him. If it isn't one war, it's another, and knowing him, he'll be caught right in the middle."

"Then you see how we need to at the very least regroup our people in the past."

She removed her hand and looked squarely at her former headmaster. "I can't build a time travel device quickly enough to help, I told you. It would be a life's work!"

"The Ministry has another," Dumbledore said guardedly.

"Oh," said Hermione, the word managing to convey both relief and disappointment. "You need me to go back? I've been working with one of my teams on creating wards able to detect the magical resonance emitted by bearers of the dark mark, but the project is in the very early stages, and I'm sure that I could—"

"I appreciate what you are offering, Miss Granger, but that's not the service I ask of you," Dumbledore interrupted with a shake of his head. "The ministry refuses to risk its other Tempus Orb."

"Doesn't the minister realise...?"

"Rufus is reluctant to risk the loss of our only other artefact capable of time travel. If the war with Voldemort worsens, he will no doubt agree to allow us its use, but by then it could be too late."

Too late for what, or for who, Dumbledore didn't say. "Then what—?"

"We can't risk the delay. I need you to steal it."

* * *

**Revised: 25 November 2005**


	4. The Founders

**Author:** Aedalena  
**Summary:** Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._  
**This chapter:** Harry wakes up and soon wishes he hadn't as he deals with two founders, a chatty mirror, and two more founders, and decides that Slytherin is Not Nice.

**Nullifier  
**_**Chapter Three: The Founders**_

"_Emotion is primarily about nothing and much of it remains about nothing to the end."_ –George Santayana

* * *

"Urg…" I groaned as I woke to a pounding headache.

I blinked my eyes open and immediately wished I hadn't. I squeezed them shut quickly, hoping to banish the burning white sunlight that could make a wizard long for a soothing Cruciatus. It lingered behind my eyelids, starry and flashing intermittent waves of pain. What had I done last night? I hadn't been so pissed since….

Oh. Right. It all came back to me in a jumbled blur of images and sounds. I was stuck in the past with an evil wizard, several hacked off Hogwarts founders, and absolutely no means of returning home. What had convinced me it was a good idea to snatch the Tempus Orb and jump blindly into an unknown situation?

"Good. You're awake."

The voice was another stab of pain, both behind my eyes and in the back of my head. Salazar Slytherin. Just the person I wanted to wake up to with a splitting headache. And I was willing to bet that _he_ was the one who bludgeoned me over the head, the bastard.

"Drink." A goblet was placed at my lips, and I hesitated. "Now."

I cracked open one eye cautiously. I wasn't immediately blinded, which I took as a good sign, and examined the contents of the goblet. The liquid was clear—it could be anything from Veritaserum to water, but if it was water, why was there so little of it? Not even a mouthful. I slowly opened my other eye and noted that Slytherin did not look particularly patient right now. Not really in the mood to be whacked on the head yet again—the pain in my head spiked at the thought—I drained the cup and instantly regretted it. _Veritaserum,_ what did I tell myself about first instincts…? Gah, the taste.

"Veritaserum," I whispered aloud, shuddering at the sliminess as I felt it coat my throat and trying to glare at Slytherin. Judging by Slytherin's amused smirk, I guessed I hadn't managed more than a bleary squint. "Potion makers. Bastards, all of them. Can't trust any of them. What an absolutely _vile_ potion..."

He waited, for the potion to spread through my body I guess, and then began his questioning. "What are you doing here?"

I gave him another look—I was a nullifier, how was a little gulp of truth serum supposed to affect me? My every cell was a bleeding _shield_ against magic. I held back a small sigh of disappointment. Slytherin didn't appear to know much for a supposedly accomplished nullifier. I should have guessed that Dumbledore would send me to a fellow half-arsed mentor. After all, he was the genius who put me with the Dursleys, and we know how _that_ pleasant arrangement played out.

Still, since the founder seemed clueless, maybe I'd play with him a little. Make up for the unpleasant experience of imbibing Veritaserum, at the very least. "Answering your questions," I stated in the flat voice I'd heard several times listening in on ministry interrogations of captured Death Eaters.

His next question was curt, and I preened inwardly. It's not every day you manage to irritate a famous figure from the dusty pages of history book. "What is your name?"

"Harry Bigglestaff Evans," I said solemnly.

Slytherin raised an eyebrow, and it was all I could do not to let out a betraying gasp of laughter. Besides, it wouldn't have helped the pounding in my head. He murmured my last name as though trying to recall if he'd heard it before, and frowned. "What are your intentions for this school?"

"Redecoration."

"Redecoration?" Slytherin repeated incredulously.

"To redo the decoration of a building or room," I intoned.

He must have begun to cotton on, because his next question was sharp and to the point. "What is your relation to the wizard Morass?"

"He's my cousin's former brother-in-law's aunt's lover's business associate. No relation, but we take tea together twice weekly and exchange desert recipes for weekend baking fests."

I smiled up at him impudently as I waited for the inevitable explosion, cold fit of rage, acknowledgement that I was the most infuriating wizard since Grinning Gregham got the Kiss. Instead, Slytherin peered closer at me, searching for something that apparently wasn't there. Surprised, I stared at him. That was twice in two days I'd failed to irritate someone when it was my aim. Snape would be frothing at the mouth by this point. Not that it took much for him to set him off. A look held too long, a gaze dropped too quickly, breathing particularly heavily or slowly, speaking, not speaking...

"How can you resist the truth serum?" he asked.

The question came out cautious, like he was reluctant to reveal that he lacked this knowledge. Which made sense since I was still the suspicious stranger who had penetrated Hogwarts' vaunted security. "Well, I'm a nullifier. Comes with the package. I take it you can't?"

He frowned. "No."

"Hm," I said intelligently.

"Unacceptable," he pronounced with an accusatory glare that suggested everything was _my_ fault. "I need to know what your intentions are. Block your nullifying powers."

"Come again?" It was my turn to look blank. Between us, we might have half an inkling, for all we knew about nullifying.

"Block your…don't play the fool, boy." I frowned at the epithet. "That is the most basic nullifying magic. You don't know how to…?"

I felt my cheeks heat inexplicably, and I ducked my head to hide my embarrassment. I didn't understand why I felt so abashed, I hadn't felt like this since...well, I wasn't sure. Maybe when I flew my broom home returning from the Weasleys' Christmas party one year, so drunk I nearly crashed into a disapproving Remus and a thoroughly enraged Sirius who had been watching for me for hours after receiving a frantic floo call from Molly. I still don't understand why the entire neighbourhood didn't make any move to help me, given the things Sirius screamed at me. Though his fury was the height of hypocrisy, given the wild stories about him I heard from Remus.

But this was nothing like that. Why should I be embarrassed about appearing stupid in front of Slytherin? I couldn't be expected to know every last ability a nullifier has, no matter how incredulous Slytherin seemed that I didn't. Sometimes I really, really wished that I was just an ordinary wizard who didn't have to worry about learning a whole new school of magic.

I shrugged at Slytherin, fixing my gaze on a distant wall rather than him while I recovered my composure.

I didn't recognise the room from my days at Hogwarts. The walls were a cool stone, weathered even on the inside somehow, like it had been exposed to elements normally reserved for the exteriors of buildings. The windows of the room were small and high up, giving the room the slightly claustrophobic feel of a holding cell. But despite the room's prisonlike qualities, I didn't feel uncomfortable. Sappy though it may sound, Hogwarts always feels like home, no matter the room. I could sleep in the Slytherin dorms with no qualms—after placing several protective charms and hexes around my bed, of course, because it's Slytherin.

The floor was stone, except for a circular rug in the centre that was almost completely black except for a thin winding spiral of silver thread. Cosmetic or did it mean something? With so much rock surrounding the room, it should have been cold as Snape at a wedding. There wasn't even one of the fireplaces customary to the rooms of my Hogwarts, only several dozen small candles that didn't seem to burn up. It wasn't, though. Cold. Not warm enough that I was ready to crawl out of the blankets piled atop me—there were so many I wondered if they were to prevent me from escaping the confines of my bed—but I wouldn't freeze if I did.

The candles kept drawing my gaze. They were placed seemingly randomly all throughout the room and floated gently, radiating a slightly green light from many different angles, so shadows were almost nonexistent. On one wall, lit rather eerily with that strangely coloured light, was a still painting of a pretty witch with long, curly brown hair and a secretive smile who bore more than a passing resemblance to Slytherin. The painting was hung above a small desk made of a dark wood I couldn't identify that had a ridiculous number of tiny drawers.

Closest to me was a bedside table that was really more a shelf placed near the bed for easy access than anything else. It was dressed in a white cloth embroidered with a crest of a snake entwined around a staff, very much like the Rod of Asclepius. The Slytherin family crest?

"Well?" Slytherin prompted, reminding me that he was still waiting for an answer.

"I don't know anything," I said tiredly, rubbing at my eyes and feeling that the statement hit closer to home than it should. "I don't know why I even came here. Stupid of me, really. I wasn't thinking. I just hoped…"

Slytherin remained silent, so I continued. At least it would be only a stranger listening to my blather; at least he wouldn't give me a reassuring pat on the back and tell me to "buck up, mate." At least _he_ had absolutely no clue who famous Harry Potter is and probably wouldn't give a damn if he did.

"I hoped I could get away from...things, just for a bit. Where I live, everyone would prefer to wrap me up in protective padding, lock me up in some vault, and tuck the key away somewhere safe until they need me. And I guess I was also curious about this ti—here. And while _here_ I've been hexed at, knocked down, chased after, cornered, cursed, and hit over the head," I shot a glance at Slytherin, whose face remained composed and blank, "none of which is exactly travel brochure material, at least no one expects anything from me."

"That's not true," Slytherin said. "I alternately expect you to bolt from the room and murder my students or start blubbering. I can't decide which I would prefer; they are equally distasteful."

"Well, I wouldn't want to do anything _distasteful_, now would I? Besides," I said, frowning indignantly, "I don't_ blubber_. And what would you do if I did want to bash some of your brats?"

"Make sure you found your way into the Gryffindor common room."

"It's good to know who my true friends are," said a new voice from the doorway. Judging by the startled look on Slytherin's face, he hadn't been aware of the newcomer's approach, either.

Godric Gryffindor stepped into the green candlelight with a raised eyebrow. "Well, Salazar. You've had your turn with the…" he searched for a word with nicer connotations than 'prisoner,' "with our guest. Is our young friend a dastardly agent of evil?"

Slytherin hesitated for a moment before shaking his head. "I doubt it. Not competent enough."

I didn't know whether to be relieved or insulted, so I didn't say anything.

"Well then," Gryffindor said, turning to me, "welcome to Hogwarts; what do you think of her?"

Finally, a chance to find out where in Hogwarts I actually was without being too obvious about it. "Can't say much, since all I've seen so far have been the odd corridor and this room. Speaking of which, my compliments to the room's interior designer. A few chains hanging from the walls, some flecks of blood here and there, maybe a skull—a tibia if you've used all your skulls up on the more upscale rooms—and it'd be downright homey."

Gryffindor stifled a snicker, glancing at a suddenly impassive Slytherin. "That would be our very own Salazar. These are his chambers you're jai—recovering in."

Salazar Slytherin's room? Unfortunately, I had no idea where in Hogwarts that might be. I scrutinised it more carefully. Didn't look like the work of a twisted, evil mind to me. Bland, stark, little life and not much colour aside from the candlelight and my bed. A place I could live in happily enough. How disappointing. I'd expected black silk and silver daggers, maybe some grotesque dark relics and a snake or ten. Wait. Was that emerald thing in the corner...? It was.

"Well, at least you have a snake," I said, careful to look away from it as I spoke. It wouldn't do to start speaking Parseltongue.

"Yes. _Come here, dear one_." It took me a confused second to realise the last part was spoken in Parseltongue. The snake, long and green but a good deal smaller than most snakes I'd had the misfortune of encountering, slithered over to Slytherin.

"Not one for much conversation, is our Salazar, if you're not a snake," said Gryffindor helpfully, filling an awkward silence as he edged away from the moving snake. "Rowena likes to say that a troll would be a better companion if it's dialogue you're after, but I think she underestimates him."

"Rowena underestimates anyone who can't recite the seventeen categories of charms at a moment's notice," Slytherin pointed out.

"Can you?" I asked.

"Can I what?" he said curtly.

"Recite them?"

"Certainly I can. I _teach_ Charms."

What, not Potions? Not Dark Arts? Torture as an art? If Voldemort ever truly met his inspiration, his hero, he'd die of cardiac arrest or a broken heart. The idea of Voldemort, a pining expression on his face, staring with tragic disappointment at a portrait of Slytherin nearly startled a laugh out of me. I shoved that mental image to the back of my mind, where it belonged.

"Wait. Then she's not underestimating you at all?"

"I did not say that."

"You implied it."

"Salazar is a special case," Gryffindor explained. "He and Rowena are locked in a never-ending battle of one-upmanship that will continue until one admits the other is smarter or they kill each other."

"Not to change this oh-so-fascinating subject, but am I a prisoner here?" I asked, uncertain. The mixed signals were confusing. Gryffindor was being friendly and chatty, Slytherin wasn't threatening me, which was his version of friendly and chatty, I supposed. On the other hand, neither had made any move to return my wand to me.

"No. I am trying to decide what to do with you."

I thought about my headache, and that, of course, amplified it by several factors. "Hm. Well, just so long as it's quick and relatively painless..."

"Don't worry," Gryffindor assured me. "We haven't used the dungeons yet for anything but Potions, for all the time we spent cleaning them up. Salazar wanted to keep them the way they were, of course, but Helga insisted. And she made him throw away all of the torture devices the Muggles who inhabited the castle before us left behind."

"On second thought, maybe this room isn't as bad as I thought."

"Enough. You," Slytherin said to me, "are irritating. You," he said, turning to Gryffindor, "are uninvited, though why I expect that to stop you from intruding, I cannot imagine. I don't particularly care what Rowena thinks about my conversational value, or how appealing my quarters are. Just take him and leave, Godric. I assume that is why you are here."

"Wonderful," Gryffindor said dryly, "sometimes I wonder how I can stand to take leave of your charming presence. I only 'intruded' to fetch the pris—former pris—oh, let's just call him our guest. Helga and Rowena would like to speak with him as well. We can't keep him confined indefinitely, so the sooner we decide what to do with him, the better."

"Quite right," I approved. "Best idea I've heard today."

Gryffindor smiled a bit reservedly and waved his hand at my bed. The covers flew off and folded into a neat stack of bedding, and I surveyed my person. Splendid, I was still wearing my robes from yesterday, which were now wrinkled and ripe with the numerous exertions of the past twenty-four hours.

"D'you think you could spare a bath for your exalted 'guest'?" I asked, frowning as Slytherin turned his nose away with an expression of distaste. "Well, if you'd got yourself walloped over the head and stuffed in bed for a day, you wouldn't smell like daisies, either."

"No, I would not. But I also wouldn't be foolish enough to put myself in such a situation."

"Yeah, well, maybe you're not—"

"We had better get you out of here," Gryffindor said, interrupting what might have escalated into a rapid exchange of insults. "You're making Salazar positively chatty."

"I like him better silent," I muttered, allowing Gryffindor to shepherd me through the door.

Git. Oh, of _course_ he would have done _everything_ differently and vastly better. Muttering under my breath, I cast aspersions on the legitimacy of the founder's birth and speculated on the species, social status, and moral standards of his parents the whole trip to the bathroom. The bathroom that, in fact, looked remarkably like the ones I was used to. Plumbing? Apparently, we wizards were more advanced than the ignorant Muggles of the time period, though that would change. And more civilised, I appended, my thoughts drifting back to the deceased Dursleys.

Deceased. Odd to think of them that way. Made them almost human, the fact that they were dead. I think perhaps Voldemort believed he was doing me a favour, ridding me of the relatives that had made my childhood rather miserable. Only Voldemort would think that killing a person's relatives might be regarded as anything but utterly reprehensible. Far from being grateful, I'd nearly spewed over the perfectly trimmed grass when I found them.

He'd gloated. Gloated about their deaths, musing in a very disturbing poetic free verse about the way their blood had spilt on the drab grey concrete of their walkway and the yellow tulips and grass of the front garden. Protected by their blood…. I'd never guessed how crudely accurate Dumbledore's explanation would prove to be. Voldemort would surely have grabbed me or offed me there and then, had I not been between the house and their spattered blood. He couldn't pass it, none of his Death Eaters could. The ones who tried got only what they deserved, I thought with furious satisfaction.

I remember screaming obscenities and curses from behind that grotesque shield until he disapparated in disgust and the Aurors finally reached the now-imperfect house of my only family. I was too exhausted then to do anything aside from explaining what had happened. I think half of them believed I killed them myself, anyway. The other half looked like they wanted to give me a medal for not fainting in terror at sight of terrifying You-Know-Who. I thought I deserved a medal for not hexing the lot in disgust.

After that, Dumbledore finally offered to let me stay at Hogwarts. I couldn't. In a lapse of sanity, some sudden assumption of guilt or responsibility, I felt the need to tend to the pathetic, empty house of my pathetic, empty relatives. The Aurors took the bodies away, and the grass grew out, but the blood wouldn't wash off the concrete. It stood as a permanent barrier against Voldemort and a permanent reminder of how much I stood to lose by taking a firm stand against him. Who's to say I didn't learn something every once in a while, I thought bitterly.

Someone was shaking my shoulder violently. I blinked, and reality reinstated itself. "Sorry, did I miss something?"

Gryffindor looked slightly concerned. "You seemed a bit lost there."

I blinked again and the memories receded to the edge of my thoughts. "Just thinking, remembering."

"It had to be a mad one," he said under his breath, ushering me over to the large bath in the centre of the room. "I will be waiting outside the door. If more than ten minutes pass, I'll retrieve you myself."

"How hospitable of you," I replied, turning a knob and stripping out of my robes.

Gryffindor shook his head resignedly and left the room quickly, as if glad to be rid of my presence. The water was stinging hot as I eased myself into the bath, but I welcomed the feeling. I found some strange substance in a glass phial that I assumed was some manner of hair product and smeared it in. When it felt like my skin would fall off, I turned a few knobs until cold, ice-laden water started flowing from the tap. Only wizarding baths... I was directly below the tap and the shock of the sudden numbing cold made me gasp, but I left the water running and the temperature dropped quickly. It helped wake me up, banish the last of my brooding thoughts.

I finally stepped out of the now frigid bath and reached for a towel. Next to it lay a fresh black robe that hadn't been there at the start of my bath. I slipped into it gratefully. I found a mirror and comb in one end of the room and worked on making myself human again. I peered at my chin, and decided that a shave would not go unappreciated, either. Wishing I had a wand so I could use a standard shaving spell, I resigned myself to the old-fashioned razor, which I found not far from the sink at which I was grooming. I fought the usual battle with my hair, which was usually marginally better behaved long. Not wanting to take any chances, I pulled it back in a braid.

Either the room was anticipating my every need and setting out all the tools I needed, or their house elves were disconcertingly inobtrusive.

"You do clean up nicely, dear."

I lashed out reflexively and bruised my knuckles on the magically reinforced mirror than had spoken to me. I pulled my fist back, rubbing it. "Sorry."

"It was nothing," murmured the mirror, blushing a pleased light pink. "I daresay, that hurt you a deal more than it did me. Here, now, you needn't keep a distance. Step closer so I can see you better."

"Oh, sorry. What do you think?" I asked, straightening in front of the mirror. "Presentable?"

"Absolutely," the mirror gushed. "You seem to have got that hair under control and you have such lovely eyes. Such an odd colour. The only green I've seen more vivid was Lady Manticale's."

"Thanks. Listen, I'm supposed to meet Lady Ravenclaw and Lady Hufflepuff soon. Any advice on how to handle them?"

The surface of the mirror rippled in unbridled glee. If there was one thing I knew, it was that mirrors loved to gossip, and I was perfectly willing to take advantage of that.

"Rowena enjoys intellectuals, with the exception of those who challenge her too much, so don't skimp on the wit, but don't be confrontational either. Helga, now. Helga loves a sincere compliment, but don't carry it too far. She loathes blatant flattery. And neither are very trusting of strangers, but you look like one of the family, so you should be fine. One of Salazar's nephews, are you? Say hello to Gregor for me next time you see him, the little dear."

"Sure," I lied. Then I widened my eyes beseechingly. "Anything else?"

"If you can keep up that look, you won't need to worry about a thing, young man. Just widen your eyes a little more...that's it, and lower your lashes just a bit—no, no…yes, there. Like that. Oh my, I say, I haven't felt this fluttery in years."

Any more of this and I'd start blushing. I cleared my throat. "Um, thanks for the help." Now, a little flattery wouldn't hurt. "You know, it's been a long time since I last spoke to such a knowledgeable mirror in years. Your surface is very clear, too. Why do they keep you in this corner of the castle?" I had paid only minimal attention to where Gryffindor was leading me before, but I thought I knew roughly where in Hogwarts I was. Enough to know that this room was far removed from the hub of castle activity. It would make sense for a reclusive wizard like Slytherin to want to live in a quiet part of the castle, though.

The door to the room blasted open with a loud _bang!_ cutting short any reply the mirror might have had. I cocked my head quizzically at the alert, armed wizard who entered, rolling into a crouch, wand out. He froze upon spotting me standing in front of the mirror before hastily getting to his feet and brushing off a few stray dust motes.

I shook my head, exasperated. "Let's revisit the 'am I a prisoner or not' question. Which is it?"

"I say," snapped Gryffindor, ignoring my question, "first I wondered why Salazar was so eager to be rid of you, but it's quickly becoming clear."

"Godric Gryffindor," the mirror clucked disapprovingly, "I see that _you_ haven't changed. Always barging in on people like you've never heard of privacy."

"Sorry to interrupt," I nevertheless interrupted, "but before this heartless man drags me away, could I ask your name?"

"Oh! It's Adelaide, but all the mirrors call me Ade." I had the distinct feeling that the mirror was beaming at me. I smiled back. Trust me to make friends with the inorganic objects rather than actual people.

"Thank you," I said, turning to face Gryffindor. "Ade and I were simply discussing the castle and its inhabitants."

"I…see," Gryffindor said, regaining his composure. "Well, this way please, if you're finished."

"I'll speak with you some other time, Ade," I said, and the mirror pulsed affirmatively before fading to the normal reflective silver.

I followed Gryffindor closely, both anticipating and dreading my pending meeting with the two female founders of Hogwarts. They would surely be more compassionate than the two I'd already met. Well, they'd looked more concerned for me after they had rescued me from Morass. If I could only convince them to let me stay on and learn all I could from Salazar…and find a way to get back home….

Gryffindor stopped in front of a tall, elegant wood door and knocked gently. The quiet sound of voices murmuring in conversation faded, and I felt my hair to make sure my braid was secure.

"Come in," called a voice. Rowena.

Gryffindor waved his wand and the doors parted easily, swinging open to reveal a room so lavish the Gryffindor common room was sparse in comparison. The walls were a pale cream, with delicate gold leaf patterns. Hanging from the high-arched ceiling were spiring chandeliers with white candles that spread pale fingers of soft yellow light down on the room's inhabitants. The whole place had an almost surreal quality, like I'd stepped into a fairytale. Which, in a way, I had.

Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff were sat on tall chairs with smoothly curved backs that looked very comfortable. I felt the weight of their intense scrutiny, returned it in full. Ravenclaw was short and thin, almost delicate. Her dark hair was pulled back elegantly, and she looked like she was in her early thirties. Which, given the longer lifespan of witches and wizards, placed her actual age at anywhere between thirty and sixty. There was nothing frail about her, despite her small stature. Her eyes were sharp and intelligent, and her gaze suspicious and assessing.

Hufflepuff was definitely stockier, but not 'dumpy,' as Morass had described her. Her skin was dusky, and her hair was a dark blonde, worn in a braid like mine, but longer. Her brown eyes were warm and open, and she radiated a certain friendliness that put me at ease. I estimated her to be roughly the same age as Ravenclaw.

"Take a seat, please," said Hufflepuff melodiously. "Make yourself comfortable. What kept you, Godric?"

"Salazar. And this young man," Gryffindor gave me a tiny, apologetic smile, "I never asked your name."

"Harry."

"Godric Gryffindor, as you already know."

"Helga," Hufflepuff said.

"Rowena Ravenclaw," Ravenclaw said, inclining her head fractionally. "And now that we have been introduced, perhaps you could explain to us who you are and why you have come here."

* * *

**Revised: 2 December 2005**


	5. Family

**Author:** Aedalena  
**Summary:** Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._  
**This chapter:** Sirius and Remus try to reason out what went wrong. Meanwhile, Harry finds out that two Slytherins are even worse than one and sows the seeds for a lie that could come back to haunt him.

**Nullifier  
**_**Chapter Four: Family**_

"_A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort."_ –Herm Albright

* * *

The valley was the embodiment of the serenity and beauty of wilderness. The grass rippled with the wind like an ocean of green and wildly coloured wildflowers were scattered with the careless spontaneity of nature. The curving hills probably made a spectacular sight at sunrise and sunset, limned in the gentle pastels of fading sunlight. A stream meandered lazily through the valley, banks teeming with taller plants and grasses and humming insects. Only one thing looked out of place in the idyllic scene; two, if you counted the large black dog.

"I don't particularly care that it's more comfortable for you to be in your animagus form," said an immaculate Remus Lupin, who provided a stark contrast to the shaggy, mud-bespeckled canine trotting beside him. "We need to figure out why the spell activated prematurely, and I don't speak dog."

Sirius Black stopped and wagged his tail apologetically, looking simultaneously sorrowful and smug. Remus pressed his lips together in a stern frown, unmoved. He took out his wand and tapped it gently against his robes, trying to remember the incantation to manually reverse the animagus transfiguration. Which, despite his frequent efforts to dig it from the murky depths of memory, remained regretfully elusive.

"If we take a short break," he said, for the noon sun made the conditions of the valley less than comfortably warm, particularly if a person was wearing wizard robes, "and this is a tentative 'if,' will you transform back?"

The ridiculously oversized dog disappeared, replaced by a dishevelled wizard who, from a distance, looked younger than he really was. His eyes gave him away sometimes, shadowed by the years he spent in Azkaban, hated by all and hating himself more for failing his oldest friends. But those eyes that could be haunted one moment were far more often lit with happiness and amusement. Neither wizard had lived an easy life, but they refused to let bitterness replace laughter. Humour was how they exorcised their demons.

Remus raised both eyebrows at his appearance. Sirius bestowed a sheepish smile upon his friend of thirty years as he brushed some clingy weeds from the hems of his robes, bypassing the wet mud dribbled like chocolate all over the red fabric. He knew how closely he resembled some kind of child's dessert.

"Half the time we're together you spend trying to get me to be quiet," he complained. "I don't think that a little payback is unreasonable."

"It would be more prudent to avenge past wrongs when the situation is somewhat less dire. Let's focus on the present, shall we?" Remus said patiently. "Something's obviously gone wrong, and the sooner we know what, the sooner we can decide on a course of action."

Sirius nodded contritely. "I'm sorry, you're right. This isn't the place...and this certainly is the time."

"In more ways than one," Remus agreed. "Let's see. Dumbledore said that we would meet Harry and him at Hogwarts for a full briefing before we activated the Tempus Orb. Assuming Harry agreed."

And not just a full briefing…but also a complete outfitting, lessons in culture, and most importantly, careful, gradual exposure to the people they had planned to meet. If "knowledge is power" was indeed the case, all of the misplaced time travellers were in dire straits indeed. But what had triggered the orb? Only Dumbledore knew the incantation.

"Strange, isn't it, how adding Harry to any situation invariably heats it up," Sirius observed sourly.

Somewhat absently, Remus answered, "I'd take his unique effect over the stalemate we're facing any day."

"Of course. It's just damned inconvenient sometimes. Now, you were saying…?"

"We are undoubtedly _somewhere_ in the past," Remus said. "And it's likely safe to assume that Harry is also here. Our fellow Aurors are probably scattered about, too, if they were wearing their medallions."

Sirius frowned, and he suddenly resembled his infamous Azkaban escapee persona much more closely. His eyes went distant, as if he were trying to locate his much-loved godson by willpower alone. When they snapped back into focus, they were filled with sharp frustration.

"He's alone," he said very evenly, which meant he was more irritated than usual, "without anyone to protect him. Again."

Remus was quick to reassure his friend, though his own worry was just as sharp and steadily mounting. "I would hardly describe Harry as helpless or in need of protection."

"That's the problem with everyone. That's what they all think and look what happens the instant we turn our backs!"

The statement fell too close to the truth for comfort. Hoping Sirius would remain slightly distracted and follow, Remus commenced walking. It worked; Sirius trailed after his friend, looking into the horizon and muttering something about security not being what it used to be. Remus felt a trickle of sweat slide down his back, and he glanced at the sun with detached annoyance.

"Cooling charm, what's a good cooling charm?" Sirius was muttering now, glancing down at himself in distaste. "That's the thing about dogs, you know. They only sweat through the pads of their feet, you can just pant it all out, and not ruin your fur with disgusting—"

"No magic until we've considered all angles of the situation and reached a conclusion. And no escaping this by transforming again," Remus said sharply, not at all pleased with the speculative glint in his friend's eye.

"You didn't seem to have any trouble steadying yourself to cast an anti-animagus charm," he grumbled.

"The important thing right now is to decide what exactly is going on. And right after that, we're locating Harry."

"And dragging him back home by the ear, if need be."

Remus remained silent, mind awhirl with thought and speculation. He had the Tempus Orb right in his inner pocket, and it was that device that prompted his extra caution. He had no idea what had gone wrong, but until he did, he could not risk their only means of escape falling into anyone's hands. While it could not be operated by anyone who didn't know the incantation, it certainly hadn't been Dumbledore who'd set it off prematurely, so that meant—

"No," he said aloud. "He couldn't have. Not even Dumbledore could have been so naïve."

"What are you babbling about?"

"Sirius," he said very slowly, in almost a plea, "I need you to tell me that Dumbledore has sense enough not to trust Harry."

"You must be joking," Sirius snorted. "Dumbledore'd let Harry tie a noose around his neck and not suspect a thing until the platform under him dropped. Even then, he'd blame it on lousy woodwork and hexed rope. He doesn't realise just how much Harry resents his interference."

"He told Harry the word," Remus said, squeezing his eyes shut in pained understanding. "He _told_ him. Merlin, how could he think, for one moment, that Harry would do anything other than run at the first given opportunity?"

Sirius did not share his friend's enlightenment. "The word? What do you mean?"

"The trigger," he gritted out, trying to reconcile the headmaster's utter lack of sense with his usual cunning and intelligence, "that activates the orb's magic."

"Well, that's good, isn't it?" Sirius pointed out. "If this hadn't been Harry's handiwork, we wouldn't really be able to get home, now would we? No trigger: no time travel. An elegant doom, I must admit, but I'd prefer avoiding it if possible."

Remus froze in surprise, and then resumed walking. Sirius could be extremely pragmatic when the situation called for it. He was right, there was no use moaning about incompetence, but rather looking for ways to benefit from it.

"Where would Albus have told him about it, I wonder," he murmured to himself. "Hogwarts? No—he wouldn't want to carry out something so private there. Too many eyes, and everyone would know that Harry had been there. A fact that would have promptly reached Voldemort's ears."

"Hogsmeade," supplied Sirius promptly.

"Yes, that must be it. Harry wouldn't agree to any other place. It's very open, plenty of witnesses if something went wrong. He thinks that way, looking to his survival without hardly realising he does. And what would his focus be? Dumbledore would tell him about the focus first, surely. Where has he seen the founders?"

Again, Sirius replied to his self-directed musings. "That portrait of Slytherin, in the hall outside the headmaster's office. Or any number of Gryffindor's portraits scattered throughout the Gryffindor common room. There might be a few of Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw, closer to those houses' dormitories."

"He must be at Hogwarts, then," Remus said, for the first time feeling some relief. It was, however, short lived as he thought about the implications. "Sirius, how do you think Salazar Slytherin would react to a stranger appearing out of nowhere in his school?"

Sirius went very still. "Not with a hearty clasp on the shoulder."

"I didn't think so either."

"Brilliant," said animagus, Azkaban escapee, formidable Auror, and worried godfather, Sirius Black, very flatly. "We'll just be picking up the pieces. We'd better apparate. Now."

"There won't be pieces big enough to pick up, if Harry acts his usual self," Remus said, gripping the still-concealed Tempus Orb despairingly. "And there won't be much more of Slytherin left, either."

"If that snaky bastard does anything to Harry there won't be _any_ pieces." Sirius said darkly. "Hogsmeade?"

"Hogsmeade."

A moment later, the beautiful valley was once more untarnished by outside influence. All greens and yellows, scented pinks and lilacs; gentle wind and bubbling brook. Humming insects, rustling wildlife. Not a trace of unnatural magic, nor of unruly dogs and meddling humans.

* * *

_No need to worry. Remain calm, peaceful. Think of babbling brooks and ocean waves and pleasant, sunny valleys and... Oh bloody hell, who am I trying to kid?_

Gryffindor took a seat, and Slytherin, who had arrived bare seconds later, settled into another one. One look at the expectant faces of the four very famous witches and wizards who'd founded Hogwarts convinced me that panicking would not be at all unwarranted. No—couldn't do that, I'd just have to handle the admittedly crummy hand Fate had dealt me. Subtlety and flirting with falsehood were the way to go. No simple, blunt truth. No fancy, delicate lies that could be snagged by one inconsistency and crumple around me.

Some time would go a long way towards ensuring my continued survival, but unfortunately, I had savaged time enough these last few hours. It probably had no intention of helping me now.

Then it appeared that I wouldn't need to just yet.

"_What _is this I am hearing," came an enraged hiss that didn't quite qualify as a shout.

Slytherin and Gryffindor rose as one to their feet, looking horrified as schoolboys caught by the teacher dangling a dead mouse in front of a screeching classmate. Curious in spite of myself, I watched the door, where the terrible whisper-yell had originated. The bolt on it appeared sturdy enough, I noted. Good, solid wood that hummed with the magic of several shielding charms; should hold up nicely under most magic.

The door flew open, and winds of hurricane proportions howled through the room, rattling the chandelier dangerously. My hair was ripped out of its loose braid; I drew whipping strands out of my face to get a better look at the furious wizard behind the attack. The gusts made my eyes tear up, and I idly considered getting out my wand and doing something, except I had the feeling it would be like facing a fully decked-out knight armed only with a stick. Brave, but ultimately stupid. I decided to wait out the storm.

A man followed the screeching wind, gliding into the room with a black air of extreme irritation. I squinted at his face. Slightly wrinkled, near his eyes and around his mouth, along with a visible furrow in his brow—a wizard of middle age, then, between seventy and one hundred. His hair was greying at the temples, which only added to his considerable aura of competency and formidability. Exactly the kind of wizard I'd rather be behind than up against in battle.

_If I meet one more strangely gifted or unusual wizard, I will lose it. Start foaming at the mouth and shouting incoherently,_ I told myself. The mind could only assimilate so much new stimuli. I'd forgotten how annoying ignorance was and how maddening. I needed a name to connect to this wizard, something from the comforting future to cling to. Some sanity, some _surety._

"_Salazar Slytherin, _if I—" this late and unannounced arrival broke off, as if just noticing that there were others in the room. "Good evening, Lady Helga, Lady Rowena. A pleasure to see you, as always. Would it be a great imposition if I joined you for a while?"

Helga Hufflepuff looked carefully neutral; Ravenclaw, venomously amused. She cast a sly glance at the slightly—subdued?—Gryffindor and Slytherin. "Why, not at all, Lord Slytherin. Hogwarts is honoured to play host to one of its most steadfast defenders."

"The honour is mine," said the man—Lord Slytherin? He couldn't possibly be. Psychotic wizards of legendary proportions didn't have irate fathers. Hm, just like famous orphans didn't have nasty relatives?

He finally noticed me and furrowed his brow, visibly surprised, his gaze sweeping me from feet to head. He opened his mouth as if to say something, then closed his mouth with a frown, saying instead, "I see that Hogwarts is entertaining another guest."

_More like 'another guest is entertaining Hogwarts,'_ I almost answered, but caution kept the words back. "Correct. I'm Harry Evans. A...guest of Salazar's."

Lord Slytherin nodded, and examined me one last time before focussing on his son. "Salazar, we need to talk." Gryffindor slumped with relief but too soon. Lord Slytherin's hawk-like gaze speared him with little mercy. "Godric, you as well."

"Uncle Warin, I—" Gryffindor began hastily, only to fall silent at a silencing glare from Lord Slytherin.

Wait—Slytherin and Gryffindor were cousins? I eyed the two wizards like you might eye a rare but grossly misshapen creature. Cousins? I didn't know who to feel the most sorry for right now, but the relieved and slowly fading panic I read beneath Lord Slytherin's frigid courtesy made me more inclined to pity the father. I wondered what had worried him so.

"I regret that we can't spare the two right now," Rowena Ravenclaw said, inclining her head in courteous apology. "We have an important defence matter to discuss; one that unfortunately requires their full attention."

"The matter I wish to discuss also involves defence...or a very disturbing lack thereof," grated the older wizard.

"In that case," I said brightly, feeling unusually cheery—perhaps in appreciation of this convenient complication, "why don't we kill two trolls with one spell and talk about both problems."

"An excellent suggestion. Let's put aside our worry," Hufflepuff said, glancing covertly at both Slytherins, "our misunderstandings," she transferred that scrutiny to me now, "and any difference that may bar either witch or wizard from speaking plainly."

Lord Slytherin, given his opportunity, took out all the stops. "Did I hear correctly that Salazar _left_ the safety of this castle—alone—to visit the school's neighbouring village? With Morass' spies watching every exit of the school, waiting for him to do just that?"

"Not quite," I said quickly, cutting off the less-than-flattering-to-me reply Gryffindor looked about to deliver. "As it happens, that was me. Morass mistook me for your son." I repressed a small shiver, recalling how utterly powerless I'd been. "It was nearly dark, so I guess he couldn't see me very clearly."

"You do look much like him," Lord Slytherin agreed with a trace of suspicion. "But Morass would not be fooled by appearance alone. He can see magic; he has no need to rely on sight. Which would mean that your magic is also very similar to Salazar's. Would you care to explain that unlikely coincidence?"

Well, it was...um...a coincidence. Unlikely, yes. But there you have it. I tried to think of a less flippant way of framing my reply, but Slytherin spoke first.

"Father, he's a nullifier as well."

I thought he'd been examining me before, but that had been nothing. His attention was intense, assessing, and I appreciated more the wariness his son and nephew had for him. Much more. Meeting his stare only intensified the feeling that he was trying to penetrate my skin and see through me, to my innermost thoughts. Legilimency? I wasn't sure because it didn't feel quite like it, but looked away just in case. It actually felt more like Morass' probing of my magic, a memory that ellicited a shudder. I swallowed a sudden, fervent desire to be anywhere but here.

"H-mm," the wizard said, drawing the word out thoughtfully when he finished examining me. I relaxed, and he looked at Salazar. "I thought that Morass had the rest to heel."

"So did I."

"Which brings us to the question that has plagued us for the last couple of hours, Harry Evans," said Ravenclaw with an expectant smile. Sharp as a knife, that smile, and watchful. Waiting for me to impale myself trying to pull any fast moves. "From where do you hail, _what_ are you doing at Hogwarts, and how did you get through the school's defences?"

I smiled back at her, with equally poisoned amiability. It mollified me to see her quail somewhat. "All very good questions," I said, to stall. "Ones that deserves an honest, straightforward answer. I come from the future."

My five listeners nodded as though encountering time travellers were an everyday occurrence.

"That makes sense. It would explain how he was able to get through the wards," Ravenclaw commented.

Rattled, as I'd been aiming for shock factor, I continued, "After obtaining full permission from the proper authorities," —so much for honest and straightforward— "I used a time travel device to come here so I could—" I glanced at Slytherin and decided that they didn't need the whole truth, "find a mentor, but something went wrong.

"As you've noticed by now" —they'd no doubt subjected me to me a thorough, careful search while I was unconscious— "I don't have anything but my wand. The device I used is gone; I don't know where it is. Which means I'm stuck here until I manage to locate it."

"And if you don't?" Ravenclaw asked me, sounding just a bit too sympathetic to be sincere. "That would be very unfortunate for you."

_If I don't? Is that even a possibility?_ The mind boggled; certainly I'd find the means to get back somehow. It was not my plan to exchange one familiar war for an unfamiliar and more dangerous one. Slytherin spoke before I could answer.

"If he's meant to find it, he will. Until then, since I am the person he came to visit, I believe the matter of his safety and care should fall under my authority. That is what you came for?" he asked me. "To finish your training as a nullifier?"

"Finish his training?" echoed Ravenclaw with a quirk of her eyebrow. "Haven't most nullifiers completed their training by the time they are his age?"

"My abilities didn't appear until I was halfway through Hog—school," I put in quickly, before anyone could start asking the really awkward questions, like who my mentor had been and what we learned in the future. "There weren't many qualified teachers, so any nullifier training I've gotten has been sporadic and rather hands-on."

If anything, the question spawned more awkward questions than if I'd let them ask whatever they'd been planning to ask.

"Impossible! All nullifiers are guaranteed..."

"...their abilities only ever as children..."

"...never before have I encountered a more pathetic attempt..."

Lady Helga was the only one not to sputter disbelief or sympathy. She stopped the confusing melding of arguments with the careful wave of her palm. I admired the effect as all except Lord Slytherin fell silent. Even he lowered his voice somewhat.

"If this is true," the elder Slytherin said, regarding me with another odd, searching glance, "then I see no reason why Salazar shouldn't continue your lessons while you remain here. We could desperately use another nullifier."

"What I would like to know," Lady Ravenclaw mused, "is why Morass mistook Mister Evans—if that is indeed his name—for Salazar. It's very uncommon for two unrelated wizards to resemble each other both physically and magically to great enough a degree to fool a wizard like Morass. From how far into the future do you hail?"

The implications were obvious. Everyone looked at Salazar Slytherin now, who seemed to be trying to hide a growing flush in his cheeks. "Are you saying that _he_—? Impossible!"

Five sets of eyes swivelled at me. I widened my eyes at Slytherin innocently. "I really can't say anything that might endanger the future. Second rule of time travellers. The first being not to let on that you _are_ one."

As that sank in, I could feel the exchanges sent via expression over my head. _Chaos,_ I told myself cheerfully. _Sowing the seeds like you always do, spreading the discord like a plague._ They'd be puzzling over this one for weeks, and to say nothing of the embarrassment in store for Salazar Slytherin, whose father was even now converging on him, demanding to know if he was currently courting any witch, and if he was doing so properly, and if he was being a gentleman, and if he had forgotten Lady Manticale, et cetera. I wondered why that name sounded familiar, and then remembered that the mirror had mentioned it.

Stealthily sliding over to me through the din was Hufflepuff, whose dark eyes glittered with silent laughter. "Oh, dear," she said quietly to me. "I don't know if my school and its children will be the same after you leave. You have the look of someone who stirs the cauldron to the brink of explosion."

Damned if my eyes weren't twinkling like bloody Dumbledore's. "My Potions professor always did say I was terrible at potions."

"Try not to bring us past the brink," she said more seriously. "These are difficult times, for Salazar especially. Please do not hurt him."

I glanced around quickly to see if anyone was listening—they weren't, absorbed in their own witticisms, arguments, and protestations of innocence. "You seem like a lady of good judgment. You also seem to trust me. Why?"

"Are you saying that you find it unusual for someone of good judgment to trust you?" Was it the light, or were her eyes dancing in amusement? Before I could stammer a reply, she said, "It took a bit of reflection, but I was helped along."

A bit of reflection…? I turned away from her in sudden realisation. My hand itched at my side, in remembrance of an impact. "Yes," I managed, "amazing, what clarity reflection can bring."

I turned to face the founder again, but she was already gone, chatting gaily to Ravenclaw, who was nearly giggling at Slytherin, who was deftly avoiding his father, who was embroiled in some heated argument with Gryffindor, who looked like he was contemplating homicide.

"I haven't gained anything," I said to no one in particular. "I've just exchanged one set of oddballs for another."

I glanced upward suspiciously. "Bugger you, too."

* * *

_Revised: 04 December 2005_


	6. Misdirection

**Author**: Aedalena  
**Summary**: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
**This chapter:** Hermione plans to break the law—and she plans to do it right. Harry cements his lie and feels guilty about it. And fervently hopes he won't be around when Slytherin finds out the truth.  
_**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._

**Nullifier  
**_**Chapter Five: Misdirection**_

"_It contains a misleading impression, not a lie. It was being economical with the truth." –Robert Armstrong_

* * *

The small, tidy office set on the highest floor of the Ministry of Research was hardly ever occupied, its inhabitant preferring the yawning expanse of the building's labs, which always contained no less than half a dozen experiments in various stages of completion, to the admittedly comfortable but remote room. This particular Thursday morning, however, the tall curtains were drawn, allowing light to stream down on a large oaken desk that was much beloved, if its various dents and scratches of usage were any honest indication.

Hermione Granger, Head Researcher of the Ministry of Research, was the next thing to Merlin in the eyes of the many people who worked for the department. That was the main reason she had taken up residence in her long-neglected office this sunny afternoon: no one would dare disturb her in her domain. The fact that hardly anyone would expect to find her there, sparing her, for a little time, from the many petitions for help that were an inevitable part of her day, did not make the decision any less attractive.

Her face brightened somewhat at the happy prospect of avoiding pitiful wails of _"But, Head Researcher, if I don't get that grant by the end of the day, my suppliers will cancel all shipments of wormwood, which is absolutely essential to my project, and if I don't finish it by the end of the month I'll be ruined!" _There were some days she felt more like a very un-amused nanny dealing with her flock of whining brats than a scientist.

Hermione could only feel relief that more than three-quarters of her people were between the age of thirty and one hundred-eighty and thus, reasonably restrained. A group that, in fact, did not include herself, but for all her similarity to the bright-eyed, hopelessly socially defunct wizarding school graduates that plagued her with paperwork and mindless admiration, she might as well be. It was all very well that they appreciated her accomplishment of becoming the youngest witch to ever hold the position of Head Researcher, so long as they did not attempt to emulate her. That might prove...awkward. She was rather fond of her job, despite her sometimes effusive complaints.

She spread an old piece of paper in front of her, smoothing it out on her desk, pursing her lips as she scrutinized it thoughtfully. It was the creation of four very unruly Hogwarts alumni, who had called it the "Marauder's Map" for its accurate depiction of the Hogwarts grounds and its ability to pinpoint the location of all people within the map, tracking their movement, and allowing all sorts of mischief to be carried out in secret.

After a few minutes of calm deliberation, she summoned the building plan of the Ministry of Artefacts, which Dumbledore had given her only a day earlier. The building presented an interesting problem to solve, watched day and night by the MoA's own private force of sentries, as well as a few young Aurors who had irritated one superior too many. After Voldemort's first raid, the ministry was unwilling to risk further damage or loss of powerful magical artefacts. And aside from the almost-certainty of immediate detection was the danger of the place's numerous cleverly placed and hidden trigger-traps.

One of her department's babies, the trigger-traps were a recent breakthrough and a devilishly useful one, at that. Hermione thought of them more as smart traps, because they did almost seem to think. Spread as a bright orange powder, the traps disappeared within minutes of application. Aside from petrifying the greatest number of intruders it could detect (and its detection radius was rendered quite impressive due to an innovation stumbled upon when a tired Hermione had mistakenly combined a far-sensing charm with the magically temperamental sight acuity potion), a trap could be keyed to recognise the building's workers, preventing the dangerous problem of friendly fire.

That safety feature was more useful in the latest versions of the powder, which were more aggressive in their programmed response to trespassers, sometimes burning, poisoning, cutting, or even killing anyone unfortunate enough to step into one's range. Thankfully, only Aurors currently used them, at top-security sites. No shipment had fallen into the hands of the enemy yet, and Hermione hoped to keep it that way for some time. They could use any advantage, even one so seemingly small.

She had stumbled upon the solution to the double hazards while trying to fall asleep the night before, stomach churning with worry and frustration, wondering at her choice of friends. It had been as simple as breaking down the problem into its individual tangles and taking stock of her own admittedly formidable resources.

She tapped the older map, actually a gift from Harry, who'd handed it to her years ago as a wedding present with a flourish and the words, _'For the brats you shall unleash upon Hogwarts, may they use this to give Dumbledore indigestion and, I hope, many ulcers.' _She smiled fondly in memory; Harry was a cheeky little imp (if one was willing to insult the little demons), without a doubt, but he could be kind when he wasn't actively trying to be contradictory.

The map lit up at an uttered phrase, something about being "up to no good" appropriately enough, displaying the many rooms and passageways of Hogwarts. Hermione picked up one of her department's three functioning, incredibly valuable tracers very gingerly and slowly swept it across the map. She couldn't imagine how her early predecessors had managed without the useful devices, which could read the magic placed in an object, separate it into individual charms used, and report them with a very miniscule probability of error. Next to the enchanted Hogwarts map floated the tracer's quill, suspended above a blank sheet of paper expectantly. It hummed as it began reading in the various charms used on the map and writing on the parchment in a careful, loopy cursive.

Hermione waited very patiently, ignoring the first stirrings of unease as the quill paused at the end of the parchment, waiting for _another_ on which to finish writing the numerous incantations. After all, how many more enchantments could there possibly be? She blew out a sigh, removed the filled parchment, and inserted another underneath the politely paused quill. It resumed furiously, and the slight dread she'd harboured became full-blown panic as it finished writing more spells and paused _again_.

She tore the paper away and thrust another underneath the quill. It scribbled and hummed, waited for another parchment. After three more such delays and a rather coarse bout of swearing for a woman of her upbringing, Hermione finally had a full list of the charms cast on the enchanted map Harry's father and his cohorts had created so long ago.

"Bloody ridiculous, is what it is," she muttered, compiling the parchments into a neat stack. "Your father and his friends had no business being so clever. Small wonder McGonagall wasn't ever able to control them; they must have been walking, breathing nightmares."

She rubbed at her eyes wearily, though it wasn't close to evening yet, and settled into a comfortable chair with a steaming cup of tea, kept hot by the charms built into the "I-heart-my-boss" mug given to her by, again, Harry, who'd found it oddly amusing though he wasn't even an employee. One could only guess where he'd found the ridiculous thing. Or, more disturbingly, guess whether he'd made it himself.

She smiled contentedly at a pale cream wall. Merlin bless her office, not a place in the world could match its comfort and privacy; why was it she didn't come here more often? Ah, yes. The lab, that wondrous room of quirky inventions and frantic scribbling, with its endless outlets for creativity and experimentation. Privacy and excitement unfortunately didn't mix well. She rubbed her eyes again and leaned back in her chair, a practise for which she was often reprimanded as a child.

"Whatcha workin' on now, boss?" chirruped a voice from directly in front of her.

Parental wisdom was highly underappreciated. She yelped and fell backwards along with the chair, her quick reflexes the only thing that spared her an unhappy meeting of skin and steaming tea. The cup, propelled by an involuntary twitch of her hand, flew forwards and spilled its contents all over the intrusive newcomer, who had to possess the stealth of a cat or at the very least that unique gift of camouflage found in the most junior of employees. He jumped back at the unexpected scalding and stuttered apologies for a good minute, so by the time he finally finished, Hermione had composed herself and stuffed the maps under a stack of storeroom inventory papers.

"And well you should be sorry. That's the last of my pot, you clumsy oaf," she said sourly, transferring her glare to the stone sphinx that guarded the entrance to her room. "I thought I had changed my riddle... What are you doing here, Gregory?"

The sandy-haired, lanky young wizard smiled like an eager puppy at her, apparently forgetting the tea that had moments ago caused him such mortification. Hermione wondered at her own taste; what _had_ she ever seen in this painfully naïve wizard, so fresh out of school he practically raised his hand when he wanted to talk to her? She filed it away as a temporary insanity, glad she'd come to her senses months ago, even if she had forgotten to change the sphinx's challenge. Another glance at the statue revealed it smiling a positively feline smirk, disconcerting to see on a human face.

A year prior, Gregory Heathrow, rejected by the prestigious Aurors, whose application for a job had been conveniently "misplaced" by the Ministry of Foreign Affairs, first person to ever be fired by the kindly barmaid of the Three Broomsticks for sheer clumsiness, had come in desperation to the Ministry of Research. Always on the lookout for people to take care of the stacks of bland paperwork the MoR accumulated over mere days, Hermione hadn't even glanced at his pathetically earnest resume. After all, she wasn't looking for a genius–far from it, actually!—she'd wanted someone stupid (or desperate) enough to accept the thankless job. She'd hired him on the spot, earning (for all time, she feared) his respect and adoration and fervent promises to never let her down.

He hadn't, not yet, despite many opportunities to do so. There was no denying that Hermione was a brutal taskmaster. She had repeatedly assigned the shiny new chronicler (really a fancy way of saying "secretary") work that should have swamped even a veteran used to demanding employers, but he'd handled everything with a competency at odds with his age, which was still shy of twenty. Somewhat thoughtfully, she eyed him over. He'd trained so hard in hopes of becoming an Auror, like his mother. Perhaps she could make use of those skills. At the very least, she could trust him not to betray her to anyone.

"Gregory," she said, interrupting his renewed flow of apologies, "you remember my friend, Harry, don't you?"

The abrupt change of subject robbed him of words momentarily. "...Harry Potter? Why—I—of _course_ I remember him. He visits you all the time, so I wonder sometimes if you and he—that is, it's right strange he's not been around lately. Hasn't come by for days. Researcher Gladys's been downright smug, saying he's gone for good, but he's still sore about the time Mr Potter put brimstone in his—I mean, yes, very strange, boss."

Hermione smiled indulgently and a bit more widely as she recalled Harry's first introduction to her co-workers. They'd had to completely rebuild two of the smaller labs, though it hadn't cost them anything, as Harry had paid for most of the damage. Gladys, of course, had added his name to Harry's (by now) exceedingly long list of enemies. Not that that was any matter for concern. Harry Potter voodoo doll sales had always been high and a lucrative (not to mention very secret) source of income for Harry, who was the manufacturer's backer. Hermione even wondered from time to time whether Harry made enemies simply to increase his wealth, but then...he was rich enough to be able to annoy people for the sheer pleasure of it.

"Yes, very odd, I agree," she said, refocussing on the matter at hand. She held the chronicler's gaze very seriously, wearing what Ron had affectionately termed during their Hogwarts days as her "listen-to-me-you-bloody-sods" face. "What if I were to tell you that he's in great danger right now?"

The chronicler's mouth formed an "o" of surprise. "I haven't heard a thing! The papers aren't talking about it. Is the ministry keeping it hush-hush? Is it Voldemort? Has he finally done something?"

"The ministry isn't saying anything," Hermione leaned forward conspiratorially, lowering her voice so he was forced to also strain forward to hear, "because the ministry doesn't know about it. Only a few highly-placed officials do, and we're not speaking."

He stared at her, transfixed by the gravity of her tone, the steely look of certainty in her eyes, and perhaps most of all, the hidden promise of her inclusive "we."

"You might be wondering why I'm telling you." At his quick nod, she clasped her hands together and frowned grimly. "The ministry cannot be told about this. There is a...high ranking traitor who would foil any attempts to rescue him."

"Why—that's awful!" he blurted, almost crackling with hyperactive anxiety. "What can we do? Do you need my help? What exactly happened to him?"

"Voldemort has banished Harry to the past, and we must, ah, retrieve a Tempus Orb from the Ministry of Artefacts, so we can go back in time to save him." Blunt, a trifle too dramatic, and packed with shameless lies. So audacious it had to be truth, didn't it?

"You mean you want my help?"

"If it's not too much," Hermione said humbly. "I realise that personal risk involved might seem to you—"

"Not a word more, boss," Gregory interrupted with a look of gratified surprise on his face—good; he was excited but determined. "I'm going with you, no question."

She discussed her strategy with him, and he actually made some tentative suggestions of his own that contained surprising promise. Hermione grudgingly admitted to herself that maybe she could have told Gregory the truth. Those dishonest half-truths and nudging manipulations hadn't really been necessary at all. A Hogwarts graduate himself, her young chronicler was a Gryffindor through and through, ready to save the world and damn the risks. And for a task of such daunting proportions, she would gladly take an army of Gryffindors.

She still had the nagging worry that even that would not be enough. Maybe a few Ravenclaws, a handful of Hufflepuffs, and, though she'd deny ever thinking it, maybe (just maybe!) a Slytherin or two. For scapegoats, she thought with a wicked smile, in case it all went wrong.

* * *

Retiring to Slytherin's quarters for a brief respite in what had already been a very long day, I flopped down on my prison-bed and let out a frustrated sigh. I didn't bother getting up and jiggling the doorknob. If the founders had any sense at all, it would be locked and warded against any unlocking charms. At least they had given me my wand back. Briefly I contemplated unshrinking the crude lockpicks I carried in the false bottom of my wand precisely for such locks but decided against it with a sigh. Best to leave that a secret; you could never have enough hidden reserves. My gaze travelled across the room and settled on the mantle lying across the bookshelf by the bed, displaying the serpent-staff crest. Especially not with him around.

As it happened, I needn't have worried about the door at all—it gracefully swung open with just enough force to startle anyone in the room but not bang against the wall. Definitely Salazar Slytherin, the chill evening wind to his father's furied typhoon, and adding to my suspicion that the Slytherin family had a Thing for doors and dramatic entrances. Quite a family; I felt downright balmy in comparison.

He strode in confidently, but for some reason, he seemed slightly drawn in, as though my presence made him smaller somehow. My hints and evasions in the founder's staff room must have thrown him off more than I'd dared hope. For the first time since my arrival, I just might have the upper hand. Or at least a little chink in the armour of authority to chisel at. Strange, the thought carried little triumph with it.

"Well," he said, dragging out the word in an unspoken but firm demand for information.

I blinked at him in studied innocence, politely waiting for him to speak further.

"Are you or are you not?" he blurted finally.

Something like desperation lay over his features, causing his usual proud bearing to seem rigid instead, with uncertainty and something else that might have been grief. I felt the slightest twinge of conscience, to be leading the poor man on. There had to be more to the simple matter of my paternity than showed on the surface. What was I missing? What could provoke such a reaction? Curiosity I expected, but fear was an entirely other matter.

Then I caught myself and frowned inwardly. What was I thinking? This was no time to allow conscience to complicate matters. Lying could only help me, elevate me from mistrusted-stranger to spawn-of-the-great-family-of-Slytherin. He'd never know the truth until I was tucked in the future, safe from any retribution he might plan.

After all, you have to be ruthless to survive; you have to be able to lie with a straight face and kill the enemy you embrace in false friendship. You have to be able to break his word without hesitation, because your word was worth only as much as the person who gave it. I knew the worth of my word, poisoned by years of misuse. How long could I keep it up before sheer, tired insincerity betrayed me?

It would be so easy to lie, but a person I had admired very much long ago once told me something about choosing between what's easy and what's right. Damn that man, but he had the most annoying tendency to be right. Always. Well, except, I thought with satisfied grimness, in the case of one Harry Potter, nullifier and designated pain in the arse. He'd seriously misjudged me.

Slytherin caught my gaze and held it, refusing to let go. Perhaps he couldn't. I let him keep it and took the opportunity to study him once more. The likeness was uncanny. We could be related, no mistake. If anyone caught a glimpse of us side by side and made the assumption, it would be difficult faulting him. _Don't you wish,_ I told myself. _It's years too late, anyway. Maybe when you were still in Hogwarts, when someone's approval would have meant so much. Voldemort has made a sure mess out of you, you sorry bastard._

"You're not what I expected," I said instead, stalling for time and to bulk up the willpower it took to finally tell the truth, for once. "Everyone made you out to be much more of a villain."

Slytherin looked dismayed, elated, and genuinely puzzled. It almost hurt to watch the emotions flitting across his usually inexpressive face. I realised that my answer could have been interpreted as assent but something stayed the words that could have corrected that misinterpretation. Like lack of willpower.

"You must have been listening to Godric too often," he said, carefully neutral and studying my face intently, looking for something; he lingered on my eyes. My mother? I would have laughed but restrained myself in time. It would have made a frightening sound. _Try in a thousand years, and then only in a graveyard, six feet under and all for what? Me? Ah, what a poor trade you made, dear Mum. You should ask the heavens for a refund._

"I really shouldn't be speaking about the future," I said honestly. And since it was too late to set him straight, I added, "Not at all."

Was it too late? Or was it simply that I was tired of being an orphan? Such an ugly word. Even the Dursleys had hesitated to use it often, though that might have been because there were so many other more colourful expletives they could supply in its stead. The pity it generated set my teeth to grinding; I was not a bloody charity case. Maybe if they'd known the word's effect on me, they would have used it more often.

Slytherin and I studied one another for a several silent moments equally at a loss. There was something new in his eyes. Hope? Please, anything but that; I didn't want my lie to give him any false hopes. I recalled Lady Helga's words. _These are difficult times for Salazar. Please do not hurt him._ She'd been foolish to trust me. Finally, I couldn't take the silence anymore that forced me to examine myself.

"What do you do at this school, aside from terrorise innocent time-travellers?"

"Hm. The more mundane people such as myself occasionally eat, drink, breathe...even sleep." Even now, his eyes roved over me, occasionally brightening as they spotted something they were looking for. I felt a stab of guilt knife through my chest.

"Not experiment with hexes on young, guileless students?" I bantered, feigning dismay to hide my remorse. Merlin. I was such an utter bastard.

Slytherin shook his head, and his voice grew very droll. "That is more a pastime of Godric's."

My self-reproach lessened somewhat, eased by Slytherin's calm acceptance. I focussed instead on the fact that he was almost joking with me, wondering what unhealthy substances the historians had been abusing, to produce a history so at odds with what I was experiencing.

"I knew it," Slytherin said, smiling somewhat distantly. "Godric's work, spreading lies to divert attention from his own less than noble deeds. He hates being reminded of his close relation to my family, yet he is more like us than he would admit."

"Um," I said noncommittally. A Gryffindor being devious? My mind struggled with that outrageous concept.

"I suppose I shall have to seek out new lodgings," he said musingly. "Rowena was rather insistent about keeping you in my quarters, where she can 'keep an eye' on you."

"Do I have to stay here?" I asked plaintively, and brought once more to my attention, the walls of the room closed in slightly.

Slytherin thinned his lips and stared at the door broodingly. "I am perhaps more inclined to trust you than she, but still...I am not certain. My father would be in favour of locking _both_ of us in here, if he thought for a moment he could prevent my escape. Morass has worried him more than he allows to be shown. You must understand how much control Morass's possession of the other nullifiers gives him. We have always represented power, and to our people's thinking, a nullifier is as one hundred wizards.

"Your mishap with your time orb has been the greatest fortune we've had in a very long while. We have thought about evacuating the school and converting it into a full time fortress against Morass."

"The school? A fortress?" I echoed, my brows jumping in scepticism. "What makes the school so special?"

"It is our location. The reason that Rowena, Godric, Helga, and I chose this site for our school had nothing to do with whimsy or luck. Rowena and Helga spent much time mapping the strange magical fluctuations of the world, but they continued to return to the old castle of Hogwarts out of curiosity. The magic in the area, it seemed, with only slight manipulation could be used to create a shield so strong that it would take the entire council of nullifiers to break through. And only then with much difficulty."

My eyes widened in stunned comprehension. "That's what he's doing, isn't it? Morass is trying to assemble all of your nullifiers to break through and storm the school. But why? Does the school mean so much? The castle?"

"Think, boy. Once Morass clears the school and secures it for himself, he can close the shield once more. He would have an impenetrable stronghold, for not without the _entire_ council of nullifiers could the shield be lowered once more. And as long as Hogwarts stands, we will have a haven from which to wage war against him. He shall never be able to fully crush all resistance, should he prevail.

"This does in no manner suggest," he added, as my face grew alarmed, "that defeat is near. We are determined to see this threat through to its elimination, as we have for countless other would-be conquerors. Yet the situation could so easily be turned in his favour, if he were to take Hogwarts. The war would never truly end."

"Small wonder Lord Slytherin was so concerned!" I said a bit dazedly. "You're the last nullifier, aren't you? The only one left that Morass needs."

"You would be quite correct, were the situation as it was a week ago. But now, you see, Morass needs _two_ more nullifiers." Slytherin smiled a very smug smile indeed. "Which he has no doubt realised, to his great consternation, shortly after his hasty retreat."

Something didn't make sense. "Why should my presence change anything? You said you need the entire 'council of nullifiers' to break the shield. I'm not in your council. Ergo, once Morass gets you, going after me is just overkill."

"I'm not sure I understand these holes in your knowledge. If you are...that is, why do you know so little about nullifying?" As my mouth opened in protest, he held up a hand. "No. Never mind. It matters little, if at all. Simply being a nullifier means that you are a member of the council, albeit a rather under-trained one, and the number of wizards on the council, usually twelve and never in history more, increases to thirteen."

"Still doesn't make sense," I said, shaking my head. "If before I came here he needed only twelve wizards, why does he need thirteen now? Is it set somehow, some unwritten rule that a 'council' has to attack the shield? The shield can check your wizards, say, 'Nope, that's not a full council, sorry, mates,' and ignore the attack?"

"Think of the nullifying magic as a sizeable estate," Slytherin explained so patiently I winced. I must have asked a very dumb question, by his standards. "Every nullifier owns a tract of land. Some, such as myself, have a greater rapport with the magic and hence possess a larger portion of the 'land.' I am able to draw upon more resources than the other nullifiers both because I have more, and because I am more skilled at 'tending my field.' But your addition strains our resources, because now that land must be divided further to accommodate you, and since you seem to have as strong a grasp on the magics as I do, you weaken the rest of us slightly.

"Morass can try as often as he wants, but without a full council of _thirteen_ nullifiers, he is doomed to failure. No doubt he is cursing his ill luck even as we speak. Cursing even more than he played with you for as long as he did."

"Played with me? I thought I handled him well enough. Sort of. Well, in the beginning." I shivered lightly, remembering the previous night. "You don't mean that—"

"Morass has some...unique abilities," Slytherin said flatly, "as you no doubt have noticed. They compensate for the partial loss of his nullifying capabilities."

I needed to find someone new to talk with. All Slytherin seemed to provoke from me was a hanging jaw and eyes wide as bludgers. I couldn't blame him if he thought me a halfwit. I made a very conscious attempt to look somewhat less gobsmacked. "_Morass_ is a nullifier?" Damn, too squeaky.

"Yes," Slytherin said in that same dead voice. "He used to be a very skilled nullifier. In fact, he taught me many...tricks he can no longer perform. And many tricks that I choose no longer to perform.

"Morass was a Portkey enchanter, which is hardly surprising as it is a job well suited to a nullifier's talents. The risk involved in creating a 'key lies in the linking of the 'key to its destination. It can take a normal wizard a full day to safely traverse the strings of magic to find his link; he has to rely on his magic to slowly guide him to it. Rather like relying on the tide to carry one to his destination. A skilled nullifier, however, can identify all the strings of magic, pinpoint the linking stings, and follow them to his destination.

"The fault of his accident lies with both Morass's ingenuity and pride. He wanted to create a better Portkey, one that could be keyed to more than one location. One with anti-nausea charms built in that could coordinate not only through the links in space but also the links in time. He wanted too many things, and though he enjoyed several initial successes, his quest for the ultimate Portkey, a Timekey, brought him to ruin."

"What happened?" I breathed, prompted by morbid curiosity, trying to imagine what phenomenal disaster must have occurred to make the sorcerer look the way he did, twisted and subhuman.

"He cast a spell while traversing the strings of magic," Slytherin said. "The magic weave, as it is called, appears to be a random thing, at first glance, but it is really quite structured. Its strings of magic are precisely located and so tightly packed that it would take a skilled nullifier indeed to follow a string through both time and space. And Morass cast a spell! Imagine, if you will, introducing magic to magic, tangling the strings and ripping apart patterns that have stood unchanged for aeons."

I cringed, having seen the results of several such incidents, including a rather famous one involving two brother wands and the grand finale of a tournament I'd rather forget.

Catching the involuntary reflex, Slytherin nodded. "No one can be entirely certain what happened after Morass cast that spell. Another nullifier went after him and dragged him free, but the damage had been done. No Portkey in existence worked anymore. He somehow bended the weave or rent it entirely—it would take the full investigation of the council to be sure, and we were never given the opportunity." Slytherin's face darkened as he stared at some distant foe. "The effect his mishap had on Morass was the most unusual of all. He did not need to see the weave any longer but could jump from place to place with little exertion on his part."

"So he wasn't apparating," I said. "I'd wondered—"

"No," Slytherin agreed. "He can follow the links, separate the strands in mere seconds to find a path to where he wishes to be. It does take him some time, depending on the distance between him and his destination, but not considerably enough to foster illusions of safety in distance."

"Damn," I muttered, suddenly glad to be safely ensconced in Hogwarts, where anti-apparation spells protecte— "But—" I sputtered in sudden alarm, "that means he could just pop right into Hogwarts and—"

Slytherin laughed softly, and it was such an odd sound that I paused just to listen better. Hm, I mused, villains should have more of a thundering cackle, should laugh in a deep and rumbling bass that, with the proper dungeon acoustics, could cause the very walls of his dark lair to shake. But I simply couldn't reconcile my mental conception of Ye Olde Bad Guy with Slytherin and his pleasant tenor. Which was rather amusing, since Voldemort didn't fall into that stereotype, either. Then again, the old bastard had one mean cackle.

"The anomaly of the Hogwarts shield extends to the magic weave also. It appears as a blank patch to 'key makers who have examined it. I doubt anyone aside from myself, Godric, Rowena, or Helga could construct a working Portkey to or from Hogwarts. You needn't trouble yourself about Morass here, not while either you or I remain safely within Hogwarts."

"That's...nice," I said, not wholly able to accept my absolute safety after years of hyperawareness and caution. After all, I'd been assured that Hogwarts was "safe" before. Besides, that would be terribly boring, which, now that I thought about it, brought me to the next important thing on my mind. "Um, what am I going to _do_ at Hogwarts? I'm not going to sit in this..." —Now let's be diplomatic here— "ah, _room_ all day."

"That is the question," Slytherin said with a thoughtful nod. "I will have to supplement your nullifying training, of course, but naturally this will not take so long."

Right, I thought. This is Hogwarts. I know Hogwarts. Hell, I _like_ Hogwarts. Therefore, I could...teach? My eyebrows flew up at the thought, and I smothered a cackle. No, that wouldn't do, I'd let them get away with too much, knowing me. Or perhaps not.… A sudden, very wicked plan started forming in my mind, and my smile must have gained a rather sinister edge indeed, because I think that Salazar actually looked alarmed.

"Your Potions master wouldn't happen to need a teaching...assistant, would he?" I asked casually, hoping beyond anything that he would ignore the glint of mischief in my eyes that had to be screaming that I was up to something.

Blessedly distracted by some troubling thoughts of his own, or perhaps still rattled by my claim of kinship, Slytherin rubbed the side of his face, frowning slightly. "Professor Kessel? Possibly. He has complained about the amount of work required by his duties. And he did express a wish to spend more time in research."

"Brilliant!" I said brightly. "He needs someone to teach a few of his upper level classes, take some of the burden off the poor man. After all, by the time they've reached that age, they don't blow up their cauldrons as often, and I," I said with a grand nod, "just so happen to be one of the best Potions students of my year."

Well, I wasn't entirely lying, in any case. I did finally learn something about potions after I left Hogwarts and spent hours helping Remus, who had just opened his _Best Brews for the Wise Wizard_ potions and potion supplies shop. I may be no genius like Professor Snape, and Remus might still know more about potions than anyone who didn't suffer from acute bibliophilia would, but I had one distinct advantage. Two, actually. I was clearly related, however distantly, to Salazar Slytherin, and I had endured seven very long years of Snape. I didn't often get the opportunity to be a true nuisance without some consequences, but here it was.

"That could be arranged," Slytherin mused, and the words 'At least you'll be out of my hair' remained thankfully unspoken. "I will speak with Rubertus. If he has no objections, I see little that I can do to stop you."

The smile I bestowed on him would have blinded the sun and made the devil shudder. "Good."

* * *

**Revised: 05 December 2005**


	7. Lessons

**Author**: Aedalena  
**Summary**: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavofur may be Salazar Slytherin?  
**This chapter:** Gryffindor has Slytherins coming out of his ears, to his dismay. Harry and Slytherin spend some quality time together. Harry teaches the Gryffindor seventh year Potions class and They Are Not Amused. To cap off Harry's day, he gets to argue with the enigmatic Lord Slytherin and must endure the Salazar Inquisition.  
_**Disclaimer:** Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._

**Nullifier  
**_**Chapter Six: Lessons**_

"_Families are about love overcoming emotional torture." –Matt Groening_

* * *

I woke the next day to a dull hammering at the heavy wooden door to my bedroom and had to stare stupidly at the high ceiling for a few seconds before I remembered where and when I was. A few more seconds were wasted as I tried to remember what lies I'd told, what truths I'd told, and what I hadn't told at all. When my mental faculties were finally recovered, I refocussed on the sound.

"Come in!"

A dark-haired figure in robes of charcoal black stalked into the room. Salazar Slytherin. I suppressed a moan and the almost irrepressible urge to pull the heavy sheets of the bed over my head. I was most certainly _not_ in the mood for more deception this early in the morning. It was better fitted to the evenings; the shadows could hide your expression. The bright sunlight of day was unforgiving to the best of liars because it limited your arsenal. And when it came to having an arsenal against Slytherin (who was, you know, _renowned_ for his cunning), there was no such thing as being overly prepared.

Slytherin stopped a short distance from my bed.

"Morning," I said politely, when it became apparent that he wasn't planning to say anything.

"Yes, it is that," Slytherin replied neutrally.

"Fine. _Good_ morning." And if I sounded a bit petulant, I was fully entitled to it. Who is a fan of word games in the early hours of the morn, anyway?

Slytherin made a sharp gesture with his hand and the shutters on the room's small, high windows opened with a smattering of creaks. I winced at the harshness of the light, my head still sensitive from two nights ago, and Slytherin peered up through one window.

"I wouldn't go so far as to call it a 'good' morning. There are clouds on the horizon."

"I suppose it would kill you agree with me," I said with a sigh.

Slytherin mused that over for a moment, with a glint of something in his eye that could not possibly have been teasing, since famously evil wizards do not tease. He looked at me steadily. "No."

Was it really necessary for my host to be one of those awful morning people? I rubbed my eyes to hide an exasperated expression. "Dare I assume that you have come for some reason?"

His manner became more brusque and businesslike, leaving me with the feeling I'd said the wrong thing. It wouldn't be the first time, so it didn't really bother me much.

"Have you forgotten about those nullifying lessons you desperately need?"

In the mood for a bit of revenge, I smiled blandly. "I wouldn't go so far as to call it a 'desperate' need."

We just looked at each other for one second, equally bewildered by one another and wondering just how we should be acting. I mean, I had for all intents and purposes claimed to be his son, but I wasn't really acting the affectionate part, though I really only ever had Dudley as a model for how one should behave toward a parent, and I hadn't yet descended to that level of incivility. He, on the other hand, was the most unlikely parent I could be called upon to name. Well, except Voldemort, but I had no desire to dwell upon him performing the necessary acts that must precede all offspring.

I forced my thoughts away from such frightening mental images. Slytherin and me. I almost snorted. We must have been made for each other. Neither of us had a clue. With an inward sigh of surrender, determined to at least try a _little,_ I looked up at him, trying to convey a slight apology with my eyes, but he returned the look with an impenetrable one. I clenched my fists beneath the covers in frustration. Fine, if that was how he was going to be...

"Are we going to go about it, then?"

"Not while you lounge about in bed; nullifying is not lazy work," he said coolly.

"Fine!" I snapped, and I threw off the covers. "Now if you will please let me get dressed?"

"Well, since you said 'please'..." he gave me a maddening nod of his head that was both courteous and condescending as he left, closing the door behind him.

Which was fortunate for him, because the candleholder I'd picked up from the bedside table impacted the wood of the door scant seconds after it had swung shut, though the thickness of the door prevented it from so much as denting the wood. I felt unreasonably furious; snubbed, confused, irritated. I found a fresh set of neutral black robes folded neatly at the end of my bed and, staring at them with undeserved accusation, snatched them up. I dressed hurriedly and pulled my hair out of my face. Briefly, I considered putting it up, but discarded the idea somewhat childishly on the off chance that my having messy hair would irritate Slytherin.

I stomped over to the door and pulled it open, my mouth already opening with a smart comment, but I closed it in disbelief upon realising that no one was there. The man had the nerve to barge into my room, wake me from my sleep, take advantage of my confused state to mock me, remind me of my responsibilities, accuse me of being slack, snub me, and then, not even wait outside my room? If the damned matter wasn't that urgent, why not wait until I had awakened on my own? Bloody inconsiderate.

Left or right? With deliberate carelessness, I commenced walking in a random direction, determined to take what came at me, and Slytherin could shove his nullifying lessons up his arse if I didn't come across him. He could seek me out, if they were so important.

I passed several unfamiliar portraits as I wandered down the hall; some were inanimate, to my surprise; others remarked on my foul disposition as I stormed past. I ignored them and found my way eventually back into a somewhat familiar area of Hogwarts. From where I was, I reasoned, I would probably be able to find the kitchens and have a late breakfast. It struck me that I had not seen any house elves yet.

"What are you doing here?" a startled voice demanded, jolting me out of my thoughts.

It was Gryffindor, who had apparently just emerged from his chambers, dressed in neat, dark robes, his hair still slightly mussed from sleep. He seemed as surprised to see me as I was to see him. Though he hadn't been awoken from _his_ dreams by Salazar-be-damned-Slytherin. I scowled furiously.

"Why, _why_ I must ask, am I cursed with such a miserable lot of wizards for a family?" Gryffindor wondered aloud. "Would it kill any of you to smile once in a great while? Tell me, 'A fine day to you, Godric,' and not have some ulterior motive?"

"Seeing your ugly mug doesn't exactly make it easy," I sniped, having worked myself up into an unreasonably nasty state.

He gave me a censuring look. "Need I say more?"

"Well, I do try," I said crossly, "but apparently, Slytherin enjoys taking advantage of the recently-awoken to mock them!"

"Why do you call him that?"

"Call who what?"

"Salazar. Slytherin, I mean. Well, not Salazar Slytherin, obviously, but Slytherin." At my blank stare, he shook his head as if to clear it. "Cursed mornings. Let me try that once more. Why do you call your father by his surname?"

"Because I'm cross with him," I said with the patience one accords to particularly slow children.

"Well, yes, but..." he hesitated. "Most people usually are cross with him, me especially. But I still call him Salazar."

"And I'm not most people," I said, raising my chin as if daring him to say otherwise, though it felt slightly ridiculous with him having quite the height advantage over me. "He won't get away with irritating me."

"I think it's more reciprocity that anything else," Gryffindor said thoughtfully, ignoring my challenging stare.

"Reciprocity?" I repeated dangerously.

"Yes; it is simply the natural state of things that at any given time at least one Slytherin is driving the another mad. I suppose it is better now that you are here and the three of you can...dole out the tension in smaller amounts among yourselves; you should have seen Salaza—your father and your grandfather before you arrived." The founder gave a light shudder. "Whoever happened to be in the same room had the distinct feeling that something was always on the verge of exploding: the furniture, the occupants, the air itself..."

"Just think," I said, with a sweet smile, "someday you might walk into a room with all three of us in a rage over something. With a bit of luck, it'll be one of you who explodes."

Godric stared at me; it wasn't a surprised stare, but one that spoke of speculations confirmed. "Well, that takes care of any suspicions I might have had that the two of you aren't related."

I must have levelled a glare something venomous at him then, because he jumped back into his room and slammed the door. I blinked, taken slightly aback.

"You can't hex a man for stating the truth!" came his defence, muffled by the door between us. "Or, you can, but it's generally not considered good manners."

_I am going to close my eyes and open them again, and I will be safe at home where everything is normal and everyone acts like rational human beings..._ I closed and opened my eyes hopefully. But the castle's walls did not go away.

"Why can't this all be some bad dream?" I groaned.

"Oh, look! We agree on something."

"Shut it, you! I'm the one who's been shoved into a completely different time; you have no room for complaint."

"But I do," Gryffindor said, his voice full of sorrow. "It had to be a Slytherin. Had to."

"It's not my fault!"

"No, I suppose it is his own, but..." his voice trailed off in sudden horror. "Merlin, I did not need to imagine—now look what you've done! You rob me of my sanity!"

"Unlikely," I shot back, "considering how little there was to begin with."

It occurred to me that I would appear very odd to any observer, shouting and gesturing at a door. I glanced around to make sure I had no audience and then resumed my offended contemplation of the door to Gryffindor's chambers.

"Go away," Gryffindor said with a miserable sigh. "Or I will summon Rowena."

"Please," I scoffed, feeling slightly betrayed. "You're going to hide behind her instead of confronting me on your own? I thought Gryffindors were supposed to be brave."

"There is a difference between bravery and foolishness. I happen to know which side of the line to tread."

Astonishingly insightful and unexpected of someone like Gryffindor—or the Gryffindor the history books told us about. I made a mental note not to make too many assumptions about Godric Gryffindor. Then I discerned a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye and turned my head sharply. There was Slytherin, walking briskly down the hall toward me, with a slightly impatient expression.

"Wonderful," I muttered. "Just who I wanted to see."

"Not Salazar?" Gryffindor asked pathetically from behind the closed door.

"What do you think?" I replied. "Fate? Have mercy on us? Fat chance."

"If you expect me to exit my chambers now, you will find yourself sadly disappointed."

I sighed and followed Slytherin's approach. When we made eye contact, I shifted my stance sullenly, crossing my arms and raising an eyebrow in a silent dare that read 'talk to me and on your head be it.' A strange look flitted across his face for a moment, then vanished. His own eyebrows rose in response, but I would not be baited. He stopped a short distance from me and observed the door at which I was stationed.

"Is he here yet?" Gryffindor whispered urgently.

"Yes, he is," said Slytherin. "Did your parents never teach that it's impolite to discuss a man when he isn't present to defend himself?"

"There is no defence for someone like you."

"Besides, who said that we were discussing you?" I asked. "The world does not revolve around you."

His lips twisted in an expression that expressed doubt. I stared at him for one disbelieving moment before returning my attention to the door.

"Can't you at least let me in?" I asked plaintively.

"Too risky; I'd rather not invoke his wrath," Gryffindor replied. "Not until I've eaten, washed, and am functioning well enough to duel him to insensibility like he so richly deserves."

He sounded apologetic. Unfortunately, sympathy did me no good.

"But you're a Gryffindor!" I said, feeling cheated.

"And you're a Slytherin! He's a Slytherin!" Gryffindor replied. "I'm the one outnumbered."

"You have my gratitude for...looking after Harry, Godric," Slytherin said. "I'll relieve you of him."

Looking after me? Was I _three_? I choked down an outraged retort, and glared at the door. "One joke about being relieved and I'll blow that door into so many pieces your corpse will be more splinter than human flesh," I warned Gryffindor.

Slytherin did not so much as bat an eye at my threat, and I just barely heard an exasperated sigh from behind the door.

"Just take him and be on your way, Salazar. It is too early to respond to death threats."

Slytherin watched me for a moment, his face unreadable, and then he shook his head. At Gryffindor, at me, at the universe in general...I couldn't tell, though for all I knew, it might be all three. He turned abruptly and started walking. I stood my ground in what I recognised as juvenile defiance, but good sense got the better of me and I trotted after him. Instead of making the turn that would take us toward the kitchens, he followed a path I couldn't recall seeing in the future.

Eventually, we ended up in a stark room with a floor of thick carpeting. For padding, I realised, and the walls looked similarly safe to crash into. I put my hand to one wall, and it gave slightly. I pushed at it harder, and my hand bounced back. Like rubber, but very bouncy. I could feel the tingle of a permanent spell surrounding the room and reached out, trying to sense what it was. Having the ability didn't necessarily mean I could always use it correctly, however. I peered enquiringly at Slytherin.

"A silencing charm," he said, correctly interpreting my silent question. "So that any who pass by are neither disturbed nor prompted by curiosity to investigate."

A silencing charm, padded walls...if it wasn't a cell for the mentally ill, then it had to be a room for duelling and practising complicated magic, either of which were suitable accommodations for me. _Which makes sense, you simpleton. What, did you think he's going to take you to his office to practise?_

I breathed out a sigh, ignoring Slytherin's sharp look. Then I remembered that I was furious with him and returned his gaze with a frown. To my disappointment, neither his countenance nor his quiet study faltered.

"I ask that you refrain from needlessly tormenting Godric," hef said finally.

"Well, isn't that just the pot calling the cauldron black?" I replied with a flippant shrug. "From the way he tells it, tormenting him is the sole purpose of your existence."

"And me, his. Nevertheless. He is many years your elder, and you should..." he stopped for a moment, as if it was difficult to get the rest of his sentence out. "You should respect him."

"Do you?" I asked, amused.

"I," he said, "am several years _his_ elder."

"Really," I said, drawing the word out sceptically. "How many?"

His face was carefully blank. "Three, if you must know, but it does not change the fact that I am indeed his elder."

"Well, he certainly feels something considerably less than respect for you."

"You might choose a better person upon which to base your actions than Godric. He is, after all, of the Gryffindor branch of the family."

"And this should mean anything to me?"

Slytherin shook his head incredulously at me. "It is well known that Gryffindors suffer from...certain faults and are generally less well endowed with talent, both mental and magical, than we Slytherins."

Hoo boy. Here was a Slytherin more in line with the textbooks than I'd seen so far. "Good to see some old-fashioned humility."

"If it is humility you prize, then see if Lady Helga will allow you to stay with her Hufflepuffs." There was a kind of dare in his voice now, and he watched me more attentively.

"Well, now! And me not aware I even had a choice," I answered coolly.

"Good. You know where you stand," Slytherin said with a dismissive nod.

He turned his back on me and began rummaging through a small cabinet while I seethed silently at the sheer arrogance of the man. I opened my mouth to vent some built-up steam through speech but stopped. Fine. Let him believe that I would do what I was told. We'd see how things were in a month or two.

"Here." Slytherin handed me a very small crystal bottle filled with a poisonously orange liquid. He held a bottle for himself in his other hand. "Block this, and study everything that you do so you can describe the nullifying process in detail to me."

I raised the bottle in a silent toast to whoever was Up There screwing things over for me (because he was doing a capital job of it) and swallowed the contents quickly. Fortunately, it lacked the bitter taste characteristic of most poisons, so chances were Slytherin was not poisoning me; it was, in fact, slightly sour and I felt my lips pucker in protest. But then I had no time to spend noting trivial details like flavour—I could feel its magic beginning to spread out in tiny branches throughout my body. I closed my eyes and traced its progress, trying to suss out the potion's intended effects.

I could feel my internal hackles rise and focussed on soaking up every last drop of magic through the infinitely small shields surrounding my cells. I couldn't see them, of course. They were more a presence in my mind, an image upon which to fix attention. Once the last of the potion's magic was dispelled, I opened my eyes again. Then I mentally reviewed the effects of the potion that I had ignored at first in favour of studying the nullifying process.

"Surprisingly not lethal," I commented. "And citrusy. Just a sense-enhancing potion. Scent?"

Slytherin nodded but said nothing, his very silence itself a prompt to continue.

"It's like watching a waterfall at first," I said, closing my eyes again to capture the image. "The potion seeks out the paths it needs to take and follows them. Then it tries to—" I paused suddenly, realising that Slytherin would not know what a "cell" was. How to explain? "It tries to...slip past your magical defences. When you picture your inner magic...do you see a bunch of shields, too?"

"No..." said Slytherin slowly, looking somewhat intrigued. "I never thought of it in that way. I see it as small points of light, like scores and scores of small candle flames, to be extinguished or fanned at will."

"That explains it, then. I can block the potions by strengthening my 'shields' and you can block your nullifying powers by, well, blowing out the candlelight." I watched his face for understanding and concurrence, pleased finding the crux of the problem so quickly.

He inclined his head. "I would agree with you." He lifted his own dosage of orange potion and shook it slightly. "A shield, you say? It sounds rather Gryffindor in nature."

I prepared to snarl something impolite, but he waved one hand with a slight quirk of his lips, and I stilled. "Interesting. I look forward to trying it myself."

I watched him eagerly; he drained the phial in one fluid motion. His eyes narrowed in concentration, and his expression remained intense for what felt like minutes. When Slytherin finally blinked, I blinked too and realised that only a dozen of seconds had passed. I cocked my head slightly in question. He gave a minute shake of his head, appearing vaguely disappointed.

"For a moment, I almost felt—I almost stopped it." He rifled through the cupboard again and withdrew another potion, this one a more common deep cerulean. "One more attempt."

The second try was much quicker. When Slytherin relaxed again, it was with an air of contentment and satisfaction. "There. A decidedly queer feeling, but that should pass with time. Enough practise, and it should become habit." He regarded me briefly. "That's how it is for you."

"Yes," I agreed, though it had not been a question. "You might say defensive magic comes naturally to me."

Instead of finding that amusing, as I'd intended him to, Slytherin frowned. "Why should you need it? Surely Morass is not...?"

The future! I looked away from Slytherin. "You know I can't say anything."

"Yes, I do," he said calmly, but it was my impression that he would rather have growled out the words.

His eyes became distant and contemplative; I sighed in relief—only to move into an instinctive roll as Slytherin whipped out his wand and with a lightning quick flick of his wrist cast a curse at me. Before I was back in a defensive crouch, my wand was out and a shield up. I countered with a lethal speed of my own, but my spell struck Slytherin's open and ready palm and faded in a small flash of light.

I froze as he studied me again, more intently and more searchingly than I was comfortable with. Stiffly, I rose to my feet and flicked small particles of dust off my robes, grateful for the soft floor. The entire exchange had transpired in a bare handful of seconds.

"That," I said furiously, "was uncalled for."

"What is it that you fear so?" was his reply.

How did he know? How _could_ he know? What had I let slip? "Nothing," I lied. "Why should I?"

"Because fear is a survival trait."

"I'm here. I'm surviving." I stated. I narrowed my eyes at him pointedly. "To my extreme shock."

"That's enough for today," he said, looking troubled. "I had some words with Professor Kessel. He has agreed to let you take his seventh year Potions lessons. There are two today; Gryffindor and Slytherin."

"That's not very fair. I taught you how to nullify a potion but you haven't shown me anything."

"And how often have you found life to be fair?" Again, there was a probing slant to that question.

"Not half as often as I find it irritating," I said evasively. "Fine, fine. I'll go find him. Where does he want to meet me?"

"In the dungeons, after the midday meal. They can be found—"

"I know where they are," I interrupted.

Thankfully, he did not try to stop me or even respond with a farewell. I left the room, satisfied, perhaps unduly so, that I had been the one to leave him this time. It was rather pathetic, I'll admit, but it was something.

* * *

If I were thrust in a crowd of people and told that one of them was the Potions professor, Professor Kessel would be that last I'd guess. There was nothing remotely creepy or dark or batty (in both senses of the word) about him; he was a cheerful, red-faced wizard who, judging by the slight bulge of a potbelly, enjoyed his beer a bit too much. Even the Potions room little resembled the chilly, dark cavern of my Hogwarts days, though it was indeed the same dungeon in which I'd suffered through countless lessons. Thankfully, the draft I could remember with much distaste was noticeably absent.

"I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you are helping with my teaching," said the jovial wizard with an accent I couldn't place, taking my hands and shaking them enthusiastically. "That is correct, yes? You will teach my seventh years today?" Then he smiled at me. "If you have difficulty understanding my speech, please, tell me. The year I have spent at this school has much improved my English, but always there are mistakes."

I nodded and freed my hands from his ongoing handshake. "I will. Do you have the lesson planned for today?"

Looking almost pathetically grateful, the professor fumbled for the parchment lying on his orderly desk. He thrust the paper into my hands eagerly, eyeing the door as though it were his salvation.

"All is in this letter. If you have difficulties, I can be found in my personal quarters."

_That_ caught my attention rather nicely. "Difficulties?" I repeated, growing more suspicious. "And why might I have difficulties with a class full of nearly adult wizards?"

The foreign professor smiled guilelessly and started very quickly for the door. "It is only Godric's class for which you must worry."

Before I could demand a clearer answer, he was speeding down the hallway as fast as one can with robes and still look dignified. I sighed and skimmed over his lesson plans, feeling faintly relieved. I only had to supervise the brewing of a health tonic. Simple enough, I told myself. It wasn't the teaching itself I needed to worry about—

The door, which had softly shut of its own accord, slammed open to admit a very large mob of happily jabbering teenage wizards. I withdrew to the desk, clinging to it almost in self-defence. Merlin—the volume of noise after such pleasant quiet! I suddenly felt some sympathy for my former professors, years too late for them to benefit.

One student finally noticed that her professor had shed several pounds, gained quite a good deal of hair, and looked very vaguely familiar. I smiled at her, revealing every one of my teeth, and she shrank somewhat, grabbing at the elbow of a surly-looking boy and pointing discreetly at me. Within moments, the clamour had receded to an utter silence. I could almost feel their thoughts, weighing me, judging me, and...dismissing me as no threat.

"Has Professor Kessel taken ill?" a studious looking witch asked worriedly.

"Yes," I lied, shrugging apologetically. "I am teaching in his stead today. Call me...Professor Evans."

The mystery of my presence explained, talking resumed as my students—a phrase that made me feel somehow aged a decade—took their seats. I smiled again, slightly surprised by but amused at their error in judgement. Did I really look so harmless? I supposed it was because I looked hardly old enough to be out of school myself. Blame it on my slight build, courtesy of the Dursleys' rotten feeding habits and inheriting my mother's genes. With a light shrug, I magicked a board into place and started writing with my wand, letting the unruly students enjoy what they no doubt perceived as a respite. A vacation? Perhaps—though they might find the destination not to their liking.

Ignoring the few curious looks sent my way, I handed out the ingredients to the potion wordlessly. Most students seemed even more put at ease by my apparent lack of assertiveness and accepted the various plants and animal parts with patronising smiles. I smiled back and returned to the board. I cleared my throat. Only three or four witches and wizards quieted and my smile crooked up to one side. They would regret not listening to me soon enough.

Using the board and its instructions as a reference, I explained how to brew the potion, watching to see who followed along and who did not. My voice could hardly be heard over the noisy conversations, and my inner devil cackled. When I finished, I leaned back against my summoned board for a moment, regarding the students. Then I turned around and erased the magicked writing.

I casually raised my wand out and cast a silencing charm, closing my eyes for a second, letting the absolute lack of sound settle like a shield between me and the real world. The moment passed, and I let out a regretful sigh. To the present, always the present. The students were staring owlishly at me now. I smiled back at them, and a few started to recognize my expression was far less friendly than it was...predatory.

"Surprise, surprise," I murmured, shaking my head and releasing the charm. "You are about to undergo what is called a 'proficiency examination,' my good children. Each of you has everything he needs to brew a health tonic. I have, of course, explained how to go about doing so. You have an hour."

A cacophony of indignant teenage voices immediately assaulted my ears and inner calm. I hastily recast the silencing spell, wondering how my own professors had managed getting through class after class through the years without casting the charm every few minutes or so. Had we really been so loud as students? I thought about Snape and McGonagall. No, I guess not. Not with those two.

One student finally thought to raise his hand, the surly-faced wizard, and I pointed my wand at him, releasing him from the spell.

"Begging your pardon, professor," he said carefully, trying to project an aura of alertness and apology. "Would you perhaps repeat those instructions? I could hardly hear anything over my classmates' voices."

Shifting the blame to cover his own arse? I was reminded unpleasantly of Percy. Didn't he realise that there were better ways of handling this than alienating his classmates? His peers glared at him. I flicked my wand back and forth, drawing out my silence just long enough that the student's face began to grow nervous. His eyes followed the movement of my wand, and when I brought it down on the desk with a loud _SNAP!_ he and half of the class jumped in their seats. I regarded my wand with new respect. A rather smart snap, indeed. I filed away dramatic wand-motions under my mental list of "things to share with the other classes."

"Being able to listen is an important quality in a wizard," I stated. "If you are unable to listen, you should take steps to remedy your inability, or else you will fail. And not just at Potions. Think of this as a comprehensive test, not just of your potion-making skills, but also of the skills you need to succeed as a wizard."

No one raised his hand after that; they kept looking at me, as if convinced I would smile, wink, and assure them that this was all some harmless little joke. In the meantime, I had to keep as straight and sombre a face as I could manage, and not let my unholy glee at their dismay show.

"Well?" I asked them, raising an eyebrow. I reached into a bag of beetle's eyes lying on the desk, pulled one out, and transfigured it into a hefty hourglass. I pointedly turned it over and it impacted the heavy wooden desk with a solid _thunk_. "You're wasting time."

There was a scramble for knives and mortar and pestles. I watched with a gfrave expression, walking around the room and occasionally pausing at a specific workspace to shake my head or mutter "Merlin save us." I projected an air of doom made corporeal, and the students felt it too, if their nervous glances were any indication. When one girl, hands shaking in a manner reminiscent of Neville, almost dropped a phial of fire-beetle innards on my feet, I decided to retreat to the desk and enjoy the spectacle from its relative safety.

It was not long before I noticed a few of the witches and wizards using their wands to control the slicing and dicing of their ingredients. I watched incredulously for a moment (Snape would have incinerated the room as he spontaneously combusted in rage). I couldn't recall ever having the opportunity to use magic—"silly wand-waving"—in Potions. It struck me as very unfair now. Not to mention the dangers that arose from exposing volatile potions to magical residue left by the spells. This particular potion wasn't the reactive type, but that wouldn't always be the case.

"No, we can't have that," I said with a pleasant expression, putting my hand up and sending a pulse of nullifying energy through the room.

Knives clattered onto wooden tables and one girl's hair transformed from a neatly pulled up blonde to a frizzy orange mess. Three wizards blushed as their classmates stared at their suddenly imperfect skin dotted with blemishes and in one case, liberally covered in pock marks. One student fell into a faint, stripped of the waking charm he'd cast on himself.

Myself slightly taken aback by the exuberance of the nullifying magic, I tried not to let my own surprise show. Confronted with disbelieving and somewhat horrified gaping, I cleared my throat. Had they connected me with Slytherin yet? I evaluated the student passed out on the floor, feeling guilty for both knocking him out and stripping of protections the student with the horrible scarring.

"No magic will be allowed. This is a test of your brewing skills." I briefly contemplated shamelessly plagiarising a favourite phrase of my former Potions teacher about the worthlessness of "wand waving" and the glory of the "subtle science and exact art" of potion-making. But you had to establish your own style, I reminded myself firmly. Not to mention said Potions teacher was a world class git.

While the students furiously attacked their task with a fresh spurt of adrenaline urging them to higher standards still, I walked over to the fallen wizard and knelt down beside him. Hesitating just long enough to draw uneasy and wary looks from the students nearest me, I cast a waking charm.

"Steady now," I murmured, helping the wearied boy to his feet. Now that I was closer, I could see the dark circles under his eyes, slightly sunken like they'd carved out a permanent residence on his face. "You should think about visiting the school's healer. You don't look so good."

His eyes focussed blearily on mine; I was reminded of my own sixth and seventh years, marked with weeks during which sleep had itself been an unattainable dream. I felt a surge of empathy, still able to remember the worried frowns my professors would exchange over my head, thinking me too tired to notice.

The crawling feel of stares directed at me prickled the hairs on my neck. Some of the students were regarding me with suspicion, like they expected me to murder the boy where he lay. Why the sudden change of heart? Oh well, best not to let it go to waste by being too kind.

"Actually," I said imperiously, rising with a calculated fluidity to my feet that caused one student to twitch, no doubt reminded of Salazar Slytherin, "that's an order. Hospital wing. I won't have you endangering your classmates."

His eyes still locked on mine like I was his only anchor to consciousness, he nodded and stumbled toward the door. I muttered a brief energising charm under my breath and watched him perk up slightly. The student glanced back at me, looking faintly puzzled and left the room. He'd better hurry, I thought to myself, because that charm wasn't one built to last. Then, frowning at the still-staring students, I recast the silencing charm.

As the tiny grains of sand trickled from an increasingly more empty chamber, the room grew more electrified with tense anxiety. After a thorough examination of Professor Kessel's fine desk, I managed to locate what looked like a research journal, thankfully empty though I doubt that would have stopped me had it not been. Frowning darkly at the frantically brewing witches and wizards over whom I presided, I started making nonsense notes in the thin tome. Whenever I made eye contact whichever student was unfortunate enough to steal a glance at me, I sighed theatrically and pretended to scribble something remarks in the journal.

The final speck of sand fell to rest atop the pile in the bottom of the hourglass. I removed the silencing charm and extinguished the cauldron fires. There were some anguished groans, but not as many as I had expected. I'd forgotten how resilient a lot we Gryffindors are. For the first time since the loud students had entered the room, I felt something like affection for them.

"The test is over. Please collect a sample of potion and bring it to my desk," I said neutrally. "Any cheating will be rewarded with expulsion." Could I even make a threat like that? Probably not, but they didn't know that. It was probably a moot point, anyway, since they _were_ Gryffindors. "But since you were selected by Godric Gryffindor himself for your trustworthiness and honour, I don't expect to have any difficulties in that regard."

The Slytherins could very well prove another story...but that was, thankfully, for later. By the time the last student returned to her seat, I had a rather large collection of potion phials sitting on my desk. I eyed the small bottles with slight bemusement. My Snape act did not extend to forcing students to imbibe their own potions. I almost shuddered, thinking the damage Neville might have done himself had he managed to make it into NEWT-preparatory Potions, with all that complicated brewing. Come to think of it, I had myself come perilously close to permanently melting various appendages of my own during my two last years in that class.

The solution occurred to me, and I wondered whether I should cringe or laugh at myself, since I _had_ set myself up for it, studying my nullification of potions with Slytherin. It argued that I could test these potions myself and nullify one only if it proved harmful. Still, I had never tried to nullify any incorrectly brewed, and therefore potentially dangerous, potions before. Soundness of such an idea aside, I reflected, it would at the very least earn me some respect for my fearlessness. Or foolhardiness. Though more often than not, the two were indistinguishable. _Oh well; I am a Gryffindor, after all. Slytherin would probably say that these lapses are to be expected._

"I will test your potions personally," I said, refusing to cater to the twinge of prophetic dread that choose that precise moment to make itself known.

The sudden glee on a quarter of my students' expressions turned that twinge into a more insistent shiver. I picked up a phial at random and glanced at the name written on its label. Marcus Nicholson. Did that sound like a capable potion brewer's name? I wondered with slight dread as I tried to analyse the potion's quality by eye before taking it. Blue, not the vibrant indigo it should be.

Not for an instant letting my casual expression falter, I removed the cork and downed the potion. I waited a moment, following the paths of the individual components through my body and impartially noting their effects, feeling uncomfortably like I was performing an autopsy on myself. As one path turned red and began branching at an alarming rate, I stopped it. The other branches seemed to have done what they were supposed to.

"Well done, Mr Nicholson," I said to the apprehensive silence. "It's very difficult to concoct a potion that restores a person's health while simultaneously stunning him. Almost as difficult as realising that in order to know how to brew a potion, you must listen to your professor, apparently. Seven out of ten, because you managed to at least heal the poor bloke."

One gangly student flushed and mumbled something that I ignored. I did catch one student's muttered "a pity it didn't work properly," the sullen one I had marked for trouble earlier. I sifted through my memory, trying to recall which potion was his. My eyes lighted on one vibrant red one, and my lips curved into a smile. I picked it up carefully and shook my head as if I were greatly offended.

"I shudder to dwell on the possible results this ill-looking concoction could have on me," I said, though I was actually rather confident. If I could do it once, I could do it again, surely.

I drank the red liquid quickly, wincing at its resemblance to the cough-medicine Aunt Petunia would shove down my throat in ungodly quantities when I'd taken ill as a child, to prevent me from spreading my dreadful sickness to beloved Dudleykins; sticky and sweet with only a faintly bitter aftertaste. Well, at least it tasted nasty enough to be a healing potion.

My focus turned inward as the potion immediately spread through my body, almost too quickly for me to halt the harmful effects, of which there were too many for my peace of mind. When finished, I blinked the world back into focus; only a very stubborn pride kept me from betraying my alarm by shaking.

"For attempting to poison his temporary instructor," I choked out in a voice that sounded only partly strained to my ears, "Mr Brickenden receives a well-earned grade of zero out of ten—or should I say, dreadful? How on earth did you manage to confuse the word 'health' with 'death'? Merlin, if this is any indication of how prepared this class is..."

A girl seated next to Brickenden leaned over to him and touched his arm and whispered something I could just barely hear. "He's just another one of those miserable...hates Muggleborns."

Not entirely sure what prompted the comment, I decided to ignore it for the time being. I looked at the large collection of phials atop my desk with something akin to panic, searching for the colour that marked a successful potion. Depressingly few had achieved it. I had the whole bloody spectrum represented on my desk. Much nullifying and internal swearing followed, and by the time I had finally finished with my heart-gripping tests and increasingly more venomous commentary, I began to sympathise with Snape's less than conventional approach to potion testing. I was in a very ill mood by the time the class drew to a close.

"Fewer than a quarter of you managed to brew anything remotely resembling a health tonic," I said sourly. "So you'll be delighted to learn that your potion brewing skills will undergo a dramatic improvement by the end of the year...as I am not, in fact, a one-day phenomenon, but will be helping teach your class for the rest of the year."

No one dared groan at this, though the force of will that kept them from doing so was nearly tangible in the air. "I will be happy to hear any questions, comments, and complaints you may have, if you schedule a private conference with me after the lesson. Dismissed."

There was a stampede for the door. I leaned back into my stiff wooden chair, feeling very sore and ill used. It was a matter of balance, I decided after some reflection. I managed to gain some enjoyment out of the harmless torture, and so had to suffer something to offset it. Win some, lose more: story of my life.

"An interesting approach to teaching, I must say."

I jerked in my chair, nearly toppling it, and looked behind me for the source of that comment. A shadowy corner of the room drew my gaze; Lord Slytherin was sat there in a high-backed chair, his dark robes allowing him to melt into his surroundings. Had he been here the entire lesson? How had I not _noticed_? I calmed my racing heart and took a breath, trying to look as though being addressed by unseen observers was something I routinely dealt with.

"I try," I replied and then nodded respectfully. "Lord Slytherin."

"Lord Slytherin?" he repeated, rising from his seat. "Is that how you should address your own grandsire?"

Feeling not at all up to exchanging banter with yet another Slytherin —one per day was surely more than enough!—I shook my head at him, politely as I could manage. Oooh, it hurt my head. Where had this headache come from all of a sudden? "I meant no disrespect."

Though his face was for the most part obscured by the shadows, I thought I detected a frown. "You insist on being difficult, I see. Your father has that habit also."

It was the first time I had been compared to my father that the speaker hadn't meant James Potter and it felt odd, even though I knew it wasn't true. Still..."difficult"? Figures that people assume I'm being impudent even when I'm trying to be courteous. "I don't see how I'm being difficult."

"Hm," he grunted sceptically, but he let it go. "An interesting lesson. You did strike fear into the hearts of your misbehaving pupils. And perhaps instilled some resentment, also. Was that intentional, I wonder?"

"Fear?" I repeated lightly. "Call it a healthy respect for authority."

"Something that you yourself lack."

And when had authority given me reason to respect it, I wondered with no little amusement. "I grant respect to those who reciprocate."

"Have I then shown you anything," replied Lord Slytherin levelly, "but the most unfailing courtesy?"

There he went again, implying that I was being insolent. "Is there a reason you came to watch my class?" I asked with sudden irritation. The last thing I wanted was my supposed grandfather to probe into my psyche. With my luck, he would uncover everything, and then I would be in quite the quagmire.

"Your father wouldn't want an incompetent teaching a Hogwarts class. I'm merely protecting the interests of this school."

"Oh, I see," I said. "You, not even a member of the school's staff, came to evaluate me? And, I'm sure, with the full knowledge and approval of Gryffindor or Salazar? Why are you really here?"

What had to be my overactive imagination saw the room darken slightly and felt a faint wind that stirred my hair. Probably the dungeon draft I had failed to detect, I assured myself. But the sudden chill that settled over the room, judging by the dark expression on Lord Slytherin's face, could very well be magical in nature. _Then what,_ I thought with some irritation, _**is** it precisely with Slytherins and moody winds?_

"Salazar? And why not 'Father'?" the middle-aged wizard asked, advancing until he was right before my desk. "Why this distance? You have admitted your relation to the family. Your aura does not lie, nor do your eyes." This wasn't the first time he had mentioned my "aura," and I wondered just what he was talking about. "You aren't lying, so why this hostility? I came to this class to see what child my son raised, but you have put none of my worries to rest."

"Why can't you just wait and find out like everyone else?" I snapped, feeling any amusement I might have managed to keep hold of evaporate. "Maybe give me a chance to show that in my own time? And if you're hoping that I'll straight out tell you...well, as I said, I'm not allowed to talk about the future to anyone. And I'm afraid that you are, in fact, included in 'anyone.'"

Slytherin scowled deeply and the wind picked up some. "Merlin take your cursed 'waiting'! All I have seen is that you are more adept at evading questions than answering them!"

My mouth firmed in a tight, stubborn line.

"Tell me, boy," Lord Slytherin said very quietly, "why you have come here."

"Why do people constantly suspect me of evil intentions?" I demanded, unable to keep hold of my temper. "Do I have to explain myself to everyone? Fine, you want truth? How is this? I came here because I was tired of waiting around to die!"

The instant those angry words left me, I closed my eyes tightly, chagrined at revealing so much. I turned away, trying to rein in my confusion and bitter weariness with the world. That was really what the matter was about, wasn't it, I thought. I didn't really want a mentor. All those things I'd thought I wanted were just me lying to myself. I wanted to get away from Voldemort, because I knew that my next confrontation with him could only end in one of two ways. And I wasn't fool enough to hope for more than one finish. I was running away, and though I knew it was wrong, knew I would have to return, I had come hoping for some respite and found none.

I felt a hand clasp my shoulder, and I couldn't withhold an involuntary start. I found my wand in my hand and quickly stowed it away, tiredly hoping that Lord Slytherin had not noticed.

"I apologise. It seems that I didn't—I won't press you for any more answers," Slytherin said quietly, a brooding darkness in his eyes clearly reflecting how disturbed he was by my outburst.

I stared at Lord Slytherin's hand, uncertain what to make of the unexpected attempt at comfort. _Don't even think of your past—the future—whatever it is! Think of here and now, the present. The future will come later, enjoy what you can while you can._ I blinked and swallowed tightly, and the draining uncertainty and distress slowly began subsiding to manageable levels. The room took on a more solid quality, and I found myself still looking at Slytherin's hand. It was strangely rough and dry for an aristocrat's, I noted absently. But then, I wasn't sure how wizarding titles worked. I knew that by my century, they were solely a Muggle thing.

The door chose that moment to swing open to admit Salazar Slytherin, who stopped abruptly, took one look at my troubled expression, and levelled a frown upon his father. I hastily composed myself and stepped out of the Lord Slytherin's reach. The wizard let his hand fall to his side, raising his eyebrows at his son's accusatory expression.

"Must you terrorise everyone that dwells here?" Salazar Slytherin snapped, not moving from the doorframe.

"Pardon," Lord Slytherin and I chorused.

My contrite echo earned me odd looks from my two supposed relatives. I refused to be embarrassed. Having often been on the receiving end of similar questions, my answer had been reflex, almost. Slytherin should have specified. Surely having a family, false though it may be, was not worth the trouble.

"I wasn't referring to you, Harry," said the younger Slyther...very well, _Salazar_, if only to relieve my own mental confusion.

"I was not being terrorised," I said defensively.

"I was merely asking your son a few questions," Slytherin interjected, casting me a grateful glance.

"Most find your habit of questioning more akin to an interrogation than anything else, my lord," Salazar replied coolly, apparently disinclined towards accepting my words as truthful.

My lord? I looked at Lord Slytherin in surprise, and he returned my look dryly. I shook my head, a smiling slightly. That must have been what Slytherin had meant.

"Actually," I said, feeling a sudden sneakiness wash over me, "he was sharing some very interesting stories about your childhood."

"Interesting stories?" repeated Sly—Salazar, his voice sounding the slightest bit strangled.

"Oh, quite," I agreed with good humour. "You think you know a person, and then you learn about the time that he—well, never mind."

"Which childhood moments?" Salazar demanded, frowning at me and Slytherin's suspiciously.

Lord Slytherin gave an amused snort and played along. "You needn't look so alarmed, Salazar. I am hardly telling him of your shadier escapades...yet. Though in the future you might be more wary of how you treat me, since my repertoire of stories is nearly endless."

"Was there something you needed?" I asked Salazar, whose normal mask of calm had slipped, revealing a mix of alarm and frustration.

"Yes. Godric just paid my office a visit. Apparefntly, his students are being rather vocal in their expressions of displeasure about you."

I couldn't withhold a satisfied smile. "Hm. I bet they were."

Salazar waited for an elaboration. Futilely. "Do I have to drag it out of you, boy?"

"You might, if you continue calling me 'boy.' I am twenty-three years old."

He did not seem very impressed. "As I said, still a boy. You _should_ be still in an apprenticeship."

An apprenticeship? I narrowed my eyes in offended outrage. The most talented students of Hogwarts were offered apprenticeships when they received their NEWT scores, and those typically lasted three to five years, depending on how specialised the skills they were learning. I had 'apprenticed' myself to Sirius and Remus—very unofficially—and learnt all that I could about being an Auror, without running the risk of putting myself under the ministry's command by officially enrolling in their accelerated Auror program, which they'd implemented after Voldemort's first raid on the ministry. Sirius had pronounced my training adequate after three years.

Once a wizard was older than twenty, he generally wasn't offered an apprenticeship, but rather a job. Apprenticeships existed mainly to ease a newly independent young wizard into using his magic full time and into a job. By the time you were twenty, apprenticeship or no, you were expected to have a grasp on your magic. Which meant that Salazar's suggestion that I should still be an apprentice was the equivalent of telling a sixth or seventh year at Hogwarts that he had the emotional maturity of an eight year old.

I opened my mouth to make a nasty retort, but closed it. I was a thousand years in the past, I reminded myself. Things could be different. Maybe here their apprenticeships lasted longer. I sighed, and said nothing.

Slytherin placed his hand on my shoulder one last time. "I'll leave you to the tender mercies of my son, Harry. He takes after me in more aspects than he believes."

With a polite nod, he left the room, leaving me alone to bear the brunt of Salazar Slytherin's annoyance.

"Well?" he asked.

"Either your Potions professor has been lax in disciplining his classes, or Godric's students are a particularly impertinent lot."

The ironic twist of his lips suggested that I'd stated something blindingly obvious. "You didn't mention to me that you had made it your cause to rid Hogwarts students of insolence. To say nothing of the very hypocrisy that would entail," he said drolly. But a calculating glint in his eyes belied his casual tone.

Oh, not good. I froze. "It's not my cause, per se," I said carefully. He wasn't going to accept a flippant answer this time. "I didn't want them to take advantage of me, I suppose. Partly."

He nodded, accepting that answer, and I nearly slumped in relief; but that analytic glint had hardened into something sharper and more dangerous. I tensed up again.

"I also heard from Godric that you were displaying your nullifying talents," Salazar said. His lips drew thin. Potions had only just finished, how had he learned this much already...? "Might I remind you that it is in both your and my best interests that you endeavour to keep those a secret?"

"I wanted to test their potions, and I couldn't possibly expect them to—"

I stopped as Slytherin went still; and it was a calm still that frightened me like no explosion of anger could have. This was fury distilled, and I realised that I was dealing with the kind of person who became calmer and calmer as he grew angrier. I felt a chill; the same kind of people exploded once they passed their limit. The serenity radiating in almost visible waves from Slytherin suggested that all of his collected fury was about to discharge. Gryffindor's remark about Slytherins and air exploding suddenly surfaced in my memory. I wished it hadn't.

"Then you did it. Tested their potions."

"Oh. Um. Yes," I said; my voice came out very small. "Sir."

"You were supervising an advanced Potions class, were you not?"

I was not intimidated by him, damn it. I straightened and this time my voice came out normally. "Yes."

"Advanced classes work with potions that can be dangerous, possibly lethal, if not properly prepared."

I winced. So this is what the poor rabbit felt when the eagle began swooping in for the kill. "Er. Yes."

"More than half of the class did not learn how to correctly brew the assigned potion."

"No, they didn't."

"And so, you tested those potions. Each and every one of them."

The gaping beak was right before me now. Intimidation, thy name is Salazar. "Yes."

"You flaunted your skills by nullifying every spell in that room."

"Yes." It wasn't a conversation; it was an interrogation.

"If Morass had any doubts as to your whereabouts, he would know now."

"I...suppose?"

He didn't ask any questions for a moment and with each second in that brief lull that passed, I became increasingly aware of the doom-doom beating of my heart. The only reassurance was that the air had not exploded. Yet. A cold comfort.

"Let me then summarise. You alienated a classroom full of students, most of whom loathe the Slytherin name; tested their potions personally, a majority of which were brewed improperly; and revealed to students who almost assuredly dislike you strongly and would be tempted to let slip information about you to the enemy, that you are a nullifier."

"That's—the gist of it," I said, hardly daring to breathe, afraid that so slight an action would break the dam of self-control that struggled to hold his rage in check.

"Would it not have been simpler to step into the Forbidden Forest, cast the most powerful illuminating charm you know, and lay down to wait?"

All right, fine. I was being reamed out, and perhaps justly so, but all I'd done was make a few honest mistakes. That gave Slytherin no cause to blow this entirely out of proportion and imply that I was suicidal, or something. Wariness warred with indignation for control.

"I made a few mistakes," I admitted stiffly, meeting Slytherin's eyes. They simmered with anger; my gaze dropped to the floor quickly. "And I've learnt from them, believe me." The tense anticipation as I swallowed potion after misbrewed potion and battled to nullify the effects in time hadn't been fun. "I promise you, I won't nullify during the next class."

"There will be no 'next class.'"

"What?" I looked up again and crossed my arms. "You can't dismiss me after just one class! I made a mistake but that's no excuse to—"

"I helped found this school. If I tell you that you will not teach another class, then you will not teach another class. No argument."

"You can't force me to stay at this school doing nothing!" I protested.

"You're fortunate I haven't decided to confine you to your quarters for the duration of your stay."

Confine me to my quarters? He thought he could order me to my room like some misbehaving kid? Like hell! "On what grounds?" I snapped.

"An appalling lack of judgment and common sense."

It was a bit much for my wounded pride to quietly swallow. "I can hardly fight your decision, as you well know. But I will _not_ let you lock me up in this school like some prisoner." I wasn't going to exchange one prison for another.

I shouldered past him and made for the door, but before I could get through the doorframe, I felt his hand close around my arm. Slytherin yanked me back into the room, ignoring my exclamations of protest, and shut the door solidly. A few of the chairs and tables in the room started to rattle as a slight breeze picked up.

"You are the most selfish brat I have had the misfortune of meeting, and given the number of students in this school competing for that distinction, that is saying something," he hissed, his grip tightening on my arm. "Have a care for the lives of others who dwell in this castle, if you have no regard for your own life! The instant you step outside of the protective magic of this school your freedom will be forfeit. Morass will have yet another nullifier to use against us and our very meagre advantage of having two nullifiers to his eleven will be lost."

"Let. Go." I enunciated each word carefully as the pressure on my arm mounted. His hand felt like a vice, like another chain holding me down to another set of obligations. A painful chain that was beginning to really bloody throb. I met his eyes angrily. "You're hurting me."

He just stared at me, our gazes locked. For a second, I thought he hadn't heard me. Then he jerked his hand away as if I had burnt him. I tried to read his expression but it closed off again. It worried me; he had not released his anger completely. I could nearly sense it lurking beneath his placid facade. The breeze whistling through the room and upsetting papers faded away.

"You may teach the other class." Set off guard by his sudden change of heart, I couldn't find a reply. "If I hear of any other incidents, I assure you, you will live in your room."

"Yeah, okay. I get the point." I felt very tired again and my headache returned with a sadistic vengeance. Confronting Slytherin always left me with the feeling that it was me, not him, who was losing ground on some battlefield that neither of us could define. "I'll be more careful. I didn't mean to—I guess I didn't think everything through."

"That is what worries me."

He opened the door and exited, coldness lingering in his wake. I collapsed into the nearest chair. It was definitely one of those days that you wished you had never got out of bed.

* * *

_Revised: 06 December 2005_


	8. Too Many Slytherins

**Author:** Aedalena  
**Summary:** Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_**This chapter**:_ Operation Stealing Time kicks off. Harry endures a grueling afternoon with his Slytherin Potions class, and scares them with his Snapish Lockhart impersonation. He has a surprising conversation with a portrait of Slytherin's who gives him some history on the Slytherin family. Bonding time with Salazar drives Harry to murder—of poultry, anyway. Then, he must race to save Sirius and Remus from meeting an unpleasant end at the hands of Slytherin.  
Thanks to: Artemisu for her time, help, and patience in beta editing this chapter. Thanks much, and carpe colon!  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic._

**NULLIFIER  
_Chapter Seven: Too Many Slytherins_**

"_Things are not as bad as they seem. They are worse." –Bill Press_

* * *

If anyone had told Head Researcher Hermione Granger ten years ago that she would one day be plotting a ministry break-in, she'd have laughed at him. If anyone had told her that she would be enlisting the aid of Pansy Parkinson, four Aurors, and little Ginny Weasley to do so, she would have lobbied for his admittance to St. Mungo's. Even now, sat amidst her co-conspirators, Hermione had trouble convincing herself that this wasn't all some very strange dream, possibly the result of breathing in too many potion fumes during her visit to the lab that day. Her eyes swept across the room, trying to take everyone in and make it seem somehow real.

Pansy Parkinson, a Ministry of Artefacts employee, slouched broodingly in one corner of the room, watching everyone interact with a measuring look. She was, thankfully, the only Slytherin. Glaring heatedly at her was the diminutive Ginny Weasley, who stood stiffly at the edge of the assembled group. The grim-faced Kingsley Shacklebolt spoke quietly to his junior partner, Thomas Sanford, the handsome wizard who had replaced Tonks once she was elevated to the full position of Auror. Her gaze lingered on his face, and she felt a smile pull at her lips as she looked him up and down. She wasn't sure how useful a junior Auror would be on a burgl--mission, she corrected herself firmly--on a _mission_ such as this, but she did know who she'd send ahead of her, if only for the view.

As if sensing her thoughts, Auror Sanford looked up at her. He flashed a flirtatious grin that lit up his amber eyes, to which Hermione answered with a slow wink. Shacklebolt frowned and snapped something at Sanford, who immediately fixed his attention back on his partner, face carefully arranged in an alert manner. Hermione felt someone nudge her in the ribs.

"Mm, now there's a partner I wouldn't mind having," Katie Bell, former professional Quidditch player turned Auror, murmured with a lecherous smile.

"Hands off, Bell. You're married," Hermione replied, shaking her head at the other witch. "For shame."

"You're not," she observed.

"No," Hermione said, smiling widely. "No, I'm not. Isn't it just my luck?"

"I don't know, Granger. Does he look like the type who likes man-eaters?"

"I only bite a little."

A sharp elbow jabbed her in the side and there was the sound of suppressed laughter. "That's not what I meant!"

Hermione shrugged innocently, refocussing on the rest of the room's inhabitants. The two wizards from her own department, Gregory and one of her more favoured researchers, Justin Higgins, chatted politely, casting the occasional glance at her as though for guidance. An Auror named Anton Lancaster rounded out the group. Though not an Order wizard, Dumbledore had suggested him when Hermione had owled him for names of trustworthy Aurors who might help. He lounged in one of her office's comfortable chairs, appearing deceptively at ease.

Hermione glanced at the tall grandfather clock by the far wall. Eleven o'clock. She cleared her throat. "Your attention, please. I know I've been keeping mum with the details, not because I don't trust any of you, but because Dumbledore requested that I take no chances with security. After I run through the plan, we suit up." Her smile was enigmatic. "Or down, rather."

She pulled out a gargantuan-sized map of the Ministry of Artefacts and spread it across her large desk. Even so, the edges of the map flopped over the sides. After thirteen hours of mind-numbing and back-aching work, Hermione had finally managed to reproduce a working version of the Marauder's Map, using the Ministry of Artefacts map that Dumbledore had so generously donated as a base instead. She reached into one compartment of her desk and brought out a tall stack of smaller versions of the same map, passing them around.

"Here's what we're dealing with. Eight professional sentries," she said. She muttered an incantation and eight red dots appeared on the map; using her wand to point, she denoted stretches of the halls. "Single patrols. They usually linger at the ends of the halls. There are two junior Aurors who watch seemingly random parts of the building; they work as a pair. Consult your map carefully to keep an eye on them, but don't be too worried. These blokes are only here because they were lax in their duties elsewhere and their superiors were displeased."

With a wave of her wand, the dots disappeared. With another phrase, bright orange lines slashed into existence on the map, glowing slightly. "There are also detection veils spread across the entrances of each hallway and near the corners."

Several people winced, and Hermione nodded ruefully. Detection veils were nasty meshes of thin cloth infused with magic and enchanted to be invisible to the naked eye. They held any unauthorised personnel who attempted to pass through tightly, like a life-sized spider's web and emitted piercing wails, a magical reproduction of the banshee's cry. The veils only let past people who wore crystal amulets that were tuned to the veil's magic.

"Fortunately, Justin has managed create a sort of desensitising mist that renders veils inactive for several hours," she continued, fishing out a phial of murky gaseous fluid out of her robes. "Everyone gets one, and don't pour it all out. Shake lightly, remove the stopper, and allow the mist to flow on its own."

She spoke another phrase and the orange lines disappeared. Dark grey square patches popped up all over the map. "Here are the smart traps. I have the advantage of having invented them and know, therefore, precisely how to confuse them for a few hours." She held up a large bottle of fine cerulean dust. "This powder disables the traps for a short amount of time when sprinkled over them. Shouldn't take more than a pinch to knock them out."

"The nastiest of the defences is the building's trick tiles." Hermione cleared the map. "I wasn't able to enchant the maps with anything to detect the tiles, so we'll have to use charm detectors."

She nodded to Justin Higgins, and he opened up the large suitcase that lay on the floor by his feet. He withdrew from it a long metal shaft with a round base that looked like one of the metal-detectors Muggles used for treasure hunting.

"The charm detectors have to be held directly over a tile to detect it. When they sense a charm, they should begin to vibrate. If that happens, skip the tile it indicated. Estimates place the count of tiles at about fifty, so you should only have to worry about encountering a trick one every two metres or so."

"Nasty buggers," she heard Sanford whisper to Lancaster, who grunted an affirmation. "Kingsley here is fond of using them in training exercises, the sadistic bastard."

Shacklebolt flicked his gaze toward Sanford at the sound of his name. He rubbed at his chin. "Teaches you balance and grace."

Sanford winced. "Flailing around and falling on my bum is supposed to teach me balance? Can't be very graceful without the use of your legs."

"You learn to be balanced and nimble enough to avoid them."

"Some people improve their balance through unarmed combat. Or dancing. Aurors subscribe to the 'burnt hand learns best' method of teaching."

"You complaining, Sanford?" Shacklebolt folded his arms with an expectant little smile. "Because next mission I could give you a real excuse to."

"No, no! I agree absolutely, burnt hand learns best!" Sanford said quickly, a slight blush flooding his cheeks in colour in a manner that Hermione thought quite fetching. "I was just...pointing out how Muggles do these things. For educational purposes."

"Very educational," she agreed smoothly, bestowing a warm smile upon the slightly flustered junior Auror as Higgins distributed the charm detectors. "I find the differences between wizard and Muggle habits fascinating. There is so much we can learn from them."

Parkinson let out a snort at that. "Like how to kill one another with their guns? We have to deal with enough of their influences as it is."

"Seeing how we're in a war right now ourselves and murdering each other quite capably with our own weapons," Ginny Weasley said, meeting Parkinson's eyes angrily, "I don't think that unreliable Muggle guns will impact us greatly. We are so good at killing as it is."

"Funny you should say that, Weasley. I've been hearing the most interesting rumours," Parkinson responded with a venomous smirk. "People are saying _you_ killed a wizard with one of those--'unreliable' was it?--Muggle weapons."

"Yes," Ginny said, glaring. "Yes, I did. And I would do it again if I had to."

"I suppose it's only what you can expect from a Muggle-lover like y--" She broke off and eyed Hermione warily.

"Would you like to finish that sentence?" Hermione asked pleasantly, twirling her wand in her hand. "Please, don't feel like you need to spare my feelings."

"Hey, I'm the one who put that safe together, Granger, and you're going to need me to break it back down, unless you want to end up as the vault's new wallpaper. And maybe I owe your Hero-Boy a little bit of help now and then, but I'm not going to stick around and listen to threats all night."

Hermione stilled her restless twirling regretfully. It was best not to push the Slytherin; they were lucky as it was that Pansy Parkinson had decided to help them at all. It all came down to their seventh year at Hogwarts, she supposed. Even then, Harry was adamantly insisting that he was no hero, deep in denial as always. And Parkinson might dislike and distrust Muggles, but it had never been her intent to become a Death Eater. That year, when pressure had been mounting on many soon-to-graduate Slytherins to join Voldemort's ranks, Harry had intervened on Parkinson's behalf, helping her prevent having to sport a nasty little tattoo on her arm. Neither of them shared any details even when pressed for them, which made Hermione worry sometimes, wondering just what Harry _had_ done to help Parkinson out of her mess. But there was no denying how useful her debt was presently.

"Fine," Hermione said placatingly. She opened another compartment in her desk and pulled out a bottle of amber oil. "Everyone strip. For once, we get to have a bit of fun before mounting up the stress," she said, shaking the bottle slightly. "Form pairs and I'll let you take it from there. If you think it will be faster, do it in threes by all means."

Pansy Parkinson curled her lips impatiently and grabbed the closest person, who happened to be poor Gregory. He looked up at her with wide and terrified eyes, his gaze focussed almost hypnotically on her pug nose and then travelled up to the forest of eyebrow hair that was likely the final resting place of several very small bugs and possibly a few particles of food and oh god was that really a hair sticking out of a wart just at the edge of her hairline--?

He turned to face Hermione and his lips formed a silent 'Help me!' or perhaps it might have been 'Hell no!' Since Gregory wasn't given to profanity, it spoke volumes about his distress.

For a moment, Hermione sympathised with him. After all, who really _would_ want to lotion up the rather menacing Parkinson, who, if she ever needed to take up another profession, would function admirably as a threatening bouncer at the seediest of pubs? But the terrorised expression on his face wasn't entirely warranted.

"It will only take a few minutes, Gregory," she said, frowning. "Surely you can ignore inter-house rivalries for that long? They hardly matter anymore."

He swallowed audibly. "But, boss...here? With everyone watching? And I didn't even get to choose who! Do we _have_ to?"

"What's this? You shy, Gryffy-boy?" Parkinson cooed, a malevolent delight lighting her eyes. "Or are you a little man?"

"No," Hermione said with an introspective look. "Not especially."

This threw Parkinson off beat. "Thanks for the contribution, Granger. Do you know a good blinding curse? After imagining you--doing _that_--with _this_...well. You'll understand. If you don't know any, a hot poker should do, but it's so unsanitary."

Gregory looked about ready to melt into a puddle of mortified goo.

"Fine. Gregory, just lotion up her back, if that's all you can handle. Whatever you do, make it quick; you're delaying the rest of us."

"Oh!" he gasped, slumping in visible relief. "Oh, _lotion_ her! Right, just a minute, boss. Shouldn't take more than a second."

Hermione shrugged at the odd emphasis, and then it clicked. She had to duck under her desk for a moment to compose herself. When she felt like she wouldn't burst into helpless laughter, she straightened. Remembering herself, she checked the clock once more before pouring some of the oil into her hands and smeared it over her face, checking her progress in a mirror on the wall. As her lips, and cheeks, and then chin disappeared from view, she made quick work of her neck and massaged the oil into her hair.

Katie Bell was making a face as Lancaster combed the oil through her short hair. "Ew. The things we do for our friends...never thought I'd come so close to impersonating Snape, preparing for a high-risk robbery."

"Mission," Hermione corrected automatically.

"Erm, right."

Hermione, who had oiled herself thoroughly before the meeting, except for her face and hair, finished with plenty of time to watch her co-conspirators work their way through emotions ranging from utterly embarrassed to coolly practical. She stripped, folding her robes neatly and setting them on a nearby chair and taking another robe, gold tinted from being soaked in the potion, and slipping into it. When the last person was completely gold-tinted, she cleared her throat.

"Well done." She passed around a hand mirror. "Take a look, if you would like."

"Any more of those robes for the rest of us?" Ginny asked.

"Yes and no." She winced. "We didn't have much time to brew the invisibility oil, so there was very little left for the clothing." Hermione held up a thin, filmy robe, shiny from the gold oil, that was almost transparent. "Preserve your modesty, it will not, but the material is reinforced with unicorn hair, so the pockets should hold your tools without breaking." She distributed the robes.

"Impressive," said Shacklebolt when the mirror made its way to him. He studied his lack of reflection. "Completely invisible to those not wearing the potion and it allows no reflection to be cast. How is it that we've never used this before?"

"Your body builds up a resistance to it after the second or third use," Hermione explained. "And its effects wear off within a few hours; slightly longer, for the clothing. It is useful while it lasts, however."

Junior Auror Sanford bestowed an impressed smile upon her, and in return, she tried not to leer at him. She needed to be focussed tonight. With a sigh, she pulled a long length of chain out of her pocket and held it out.

"Here's our Portkey. It's set to activate at my command, or, in my absence, Shacklebolt's." Hermione said nothing about the second Portkey in her other pocket. She preferred to have an alternative means of transport. Dumbledore had told her, rather cryptically, that she should exercise caution, even among those she thought to be friends. He didn't explain why. "If everyone would take hold...?"

And with that, the group of nearly naked, gold-tinted witches and wizard disappeared.

* * *

"Time. Bottle your potions and place them on my desk. Don't try to snap up potion from any cauldron but your own. Rest assured that you will regret it, because I _will_ know."

The Slytherins were quiet, but not in a respectful fashion. It was the unsettling silence of an enemy measuring the potential threat posed by some new anomaly. And it had been like that for the half of the lesson in which they weren't doing the exact opposite: chattering away, blatantly insubordinate. My nerves were jittery by now, and I kept wanting to look over my shoulder, but you could never show fear. Once you did, the little bastards would walk right over you, and you can be sure that the snots would take care to stomp heavy as they could.

Whatever else we Gryffindors might be, we aren't especially stupid. Outside of complaining to their Head of House about the unnecessary and unwarranted cruelty of their substitute professor, my Gryffindor class hadn't breathed a word of me or my teaching habits to anyone, for the simple reason that they didn't want the Slytherins to have any advantage. Far from it: they hoped that their rival house would undergo the same treatment they'd had, or preferably worse. It was comforting to see that some things never changed.

I'd done my best not to disappoint. The class had started the same and remained the same up until the point at which I introduced myself. From there...it all went downhill. No, that's not quite enough. Downmountain? Point is, things went _bad_. "Evans" was apparently not a recognised wizarding family surname, so it followed that I was a "Mudblood" incapable of teaching my obvious superiors. And Salazar had instilled in an uncomfortable number of his students a very deep and instinctual...distaste? Contempt? No, complete and utter loathing for Muggleborn wizards. The history books were right about some things, finally.

It felt like walking into a cage of hungry tigers and locking the door behind you. Whenever I said a single word, the room erupted in titters and whispers and mocking mimicry, all of it intensely annoying. I must have ground my teeth down to almost nothing in the first five minutes. And I couldn't even cast a silencing charm until I'd sprung my little surprise on them.

Upon being informed that magical aid of any kind was not allowed, there had almost been an uprising. And since the use of my nullifying powers was barred to me if I wanted to preserve my teaching position (though halfway through the class, I was ready to beg Salazar to sack me), I had to resort to confiscating wands to prevent cheating.

Some had extra wands--these were Slytherins, after all--so I wasted more time making a second sweep of the dungeon. And when the Slytherins tried at being nasty, I was nasty right back. Unfortunately for them, I was in a whole other league of nasty. When I was nasty, it was with a capital. I was Nasty, in every enthusiastic interpretation of the word.

Whenever the few who had, amazingly enough, a _third_ wand tucked somewhere tried--unsuccessfully, of course--to jinx me, I cursed them back. They name-called; I insulted and insinuated and tore at their bloated egos. They were venomous; I was pure vitriol. It was the only way to deal with Slytherins. Show them that it was better to be your friend--far, far better--than your enemy. I think I made a rather strong case.

It was undeclared war of a sort, and though they wore me down quite a bit, they'd lost before they even started. Because no matter what they said, what they did, I had heard worse and seen worse and experienced much worse. After Voldemort, there isn't much that can shock or horrify me. I won't deny that some of it penetrated and wedged its way under even my thick skin. Not the way Slytherin could or Snape could or even Sirius sometimes could. These jabs were clumsy and amateurish, because their opinions of me simply didn't matter. Only when they unknowingly echoed an accusation I had levelled at myself one time or another did I feel a small jab of pain. And I had more than reciprocated.

Even so, I was growing quite tired of it. My desk was truly a refuge now; I surveyed the brooding faces of my students from behind another rainbow collection of healing potions. How to grade them? If only I could test them myself...I didn't care what Slytherin said, it just wasn't as dangerous as he made it out to be.

Then the beginning a plan began to take shape and substance in my mind. I smiled. Oh, they deserved it. "Everyone's marked their potion?"

Silence, but welcome this time. "Wonderful!" I picked up a potion of orange hue that had specks of...something floating around in it. Frightening how closely it resembled nothing more than very pulpy orange juice. I glanced at the name labelling the potion, if so charitable a moniker might be assigned to the pitiful liquid. "Mister Wilkins? Please be so kind as to step up here for a moment."

A pale boy with sharp, aristocratic features and an expression of perpetual pouting stood up and walked slowly, reluctantly up to my desk, spine ramrod straight. Excellent, it would be just like old times--he was a bit like Malfoy, except very obviously lacking in brewing skills. Or perhaps listening skills, to be fair. Probably both, to be honest. I gave him an even wider smile as he paused, looking up at me with his arms crossed insolently.

"Yes?" he drawled, pouring all of his upper-class contempt and long-suffering patience into the one-syllable word. Efficient bloke.

I shook his potion slightly, curious to see if the floating specks of...whatever might mix in. They didn't. "This is your...potion," I heaped my own disdain upon that word, "correct?"

He took the small bottle of orange jui--_potion_ from me, studied it quickly, and shrugged dismissively. "Yes."

Either he had no idea just how ghastly a potion he had brewed, or he doubted that I would do anything about it. A slow learner, then.

"Splendid!" I gushed, beaming at him as though he were my star pupil. "Well, what are you waiting for? Drink up!"

"_What?_" His sullen expression melted away, replaced by one of shock. He almost dropped the bottle.

"Wouldn't you like your potion to be graded?" I asked, adopting an expression of polite confusion.

And bless my black little heart, he _fell_ for it, after all I'd already done. The well-intentioned professor who's just a bit clueless... I knew toddlers who were more discerning. Shameful, and him a Slytherin!

"Yes, obviously, but--" He hesitated, as though uncertain how to break it to me gently. How to tell me that this simply was _not_ How Things Were Done. Too bad no one had told him that the game had changed entirely.

"Have at it, then!" I said cheerfully.

"What, are you _daft_?" he said incredulously. "You expect me to drink this for a grade?"

"It is supposed to be a healing potion, isn't it?"

Could he be wising up? I thought I detected a glimmer of comprehension, though it could just be the torchlight. "Well, yes, but--"

"Go on, then. Don't keep the rest of us waiting." I turned away from him and began shuffling papers on the desk into a neat pile. After a moment, I looked up. "We haven't all day, Mister Wilkins, unless you wish to stretch out this Potions lesson...?"

The worried faces of his classmates prevented him from responding with an affirmative to my question, which was too bad, because I think he was about rattled enough to actually have done so. The ensuing violence would have been a sight. Slytherins can be so very creative when it comes to causing pain, the spiteful little monsters.

"But--"

"Oh!" I pounced. "Do you have doubts then, as to whether or not you brewed the potion correctly?"

"No," the student said stubbornly. Oho, _wrong_ answer. I almost felt sorry for him, but I think I was enjoying it too much.

"Then you will have no trouble at all drinking it. Testing it." _Just stop your nose and pretend it's juice_, I thought with a private snort of amusement. _And make a dash for the toilets, in the vain hope that you'll be able to make it there before the effects take hold. Permanently._

He eyed the potion with trepidation. "But it's a--I mean, I am not--"

"Come now. You seem very confident in your brewing skills. Perhaps you made an error. Maybe two. That shouldn't make too great a difference," I said softly, gently, "should it."

"Maybe I am overestimating how well I did," the boy said reluctantly.

"Ah? Perhaps only an acceptable potion, then. Still, it shouldn't be lethal at that skill level. It should function basically the same as a correctly brewed healing potion. Maybe it will make you queasy, but that's all, hm?"

All doubts vanished. The student stared at me now with something akin to horror as he realised how shrewdly he'd been manipulated. "May-maybe not 'acceptable.' Sir."

"Nothing short of a truly dreadful potion would cause any harm that can't be cured by a brief stay at the hospital wing," I said cheerfully. "Well, very occasionally, a student manages to hit upon just the right combination of mistakes that after imbibing, he finds Potions grades the least of his worries, but that hasn't happened to a student of mine in years. So, you needn't worry. Drink up, now."

The rest of the Slytherins watched him with the sick fascination you find in spectators milling around a car accident. He was visibly torn between pride and common sense. Pride whispered that he should take the potion and damn the risks. Common sense, a Slytherin survival trait, pointed out levelly that today wasn't a very good day to die. The battle was short; common sense, victorious.

"No. I-I can't." His pale face broke out in splotches of embarrassed red; he looked miserable. Furious, too. Or he would be later.

"Sure you can. It's as easy as taking the stopper out, tipping your head back, and letting it slide down."

"I will not drink this! I refuse! You're just trying to kill me--"

I feigned shock. "You must be saying then that your potion is dangerous enough to harm you, then? A failure...?"

"Yes," he mumbled.

"Sorry?" I prodded innocently "What was that?"

"I said yes!" he snapped.

"Yes...what?"

"Yes, my potion is a failure! Happy?" Wilkins glared furiously at me, and I knew I'd made an enemy for life. _Take a number, kid, and wait your turn. I've got people after me who could and certainly _would_ kill you faster than you can say 'Avada Kedavra' if they thought you might try to rob them of the pleasure of killing me themselves._

"To be happy, I would have to care that your potion is of such low quality a _first year_ student wouldn't deign to claim it as his own. Which I don't. Whatever you might believe, the world does _not_ hold its breath whenever you take a crap." I shrugged. "Still, isn't it a shame?" I clucked with false sympathy.

I took up a quill and scribbled his name and grade down before vanishing the potion with a wave of my wand. I looked up at the intent faces of my students and my friendly smile disappeared. "Here's how it is: you either drink your potion and I grade based on how it affects you, or you accept a failing grade and walk away still breathing."

"You're a teacher," one student insisted. "You can't threaten us. You'll be sacked."

"Threaten you? Naturally not," I said, inclining my head. "That would be quite foolish. I'm merely imparting sage advice to a class that has desperate need of it."

"We're not afraid of you," another said.

"Well and good. I'm no danger, after all." I stared him down. "Your potions, however, could very well be. In this class, to paraphrase the great Merlin himself, 'if at first you don't succeed, chances are, you won't have to worry about trying again.'"

"Merlin never said anything like that," someone muttered.

"Well, if not, he should have." There was no reply to this and the Slytherins worked very hard at not meeting my eyes, careful to do nothing that might draw my attention toward them. I smiled benevolently. "Now then...who's next?"

The key to working with Slytherins, I told myself after the lesson as they left the room, careful to watch me until they were safely out the door, is to show them that you are willing to make them utterly miserable until they grant you respect. Rubbing my bleary eyes, I amended my thoughts slightly. _Most_ Slytherins. Half of them really weren't all that bad. And half again of those were actually pretty decent. Quite a bit like the Slytherins of my own time. Except, I thought with a frown, the ones who did care about bloodlines were uncommonly expressive about it.

I shrugged my musings away tiredly and straightened up the room, wincing from time to time at the worsening ache in my head. Now that I had expended all of my energy and enthusiasm surviving the lesson, my lids drooped insistently, and I shook myself. I locked away the gradebook and surveyed the room; acceptable. With a nod, I left the room and locked up behind me, leaving a nasty curse on the door in case anyone tried to break in for revenge through sabotage or anything like that. It wouldn't be the first time. I made a mental note to warn Professor Kessel about the curse before he tried to enter tomorrow.

Merlin. It was only the afternoon and already I longed for a soothing, calming nap. With that intent, I walked heavily back to my room--Slytherin's old room. I would have to take care to learn the strange hall should I ever had the need to make a hasty escape. Hopefully that would never be the case, but I knew better than to rely on hope.

The familiar thick door of my quarters seemed a world away when I finally caught sight of it, and I wondered why I was so exhausted. Certainly I hadn't reached the age yet where a night's rest wasn't enough to fend off fatigue.

I could only see one way to rectify the problem: slip into bed for a few hours before night fell and it was time for supper. Yeah, that sounded...really nice right now. By the time I finally reached the door, my headache was almost equal in intensity to those I suffered whenever Voldemort felt particularly malicious. I pressed one hand to my forehead, but the pain, fervently egalitarian and loath to discriminate, was spread equally throughout my whole head, careful not to let any part feel left out. A favour I could really do without. I leaned against the door for a moment, to catch my breath, which was coming in shorter and shallower gasps.

"Talk--about--a rapid deterioration," I gritted out.

I hadn't even realised I was so out of breath. And now that I thought about it, the floor looked unreasonably blurred; it twisted under my feet. I closed my eyes slowly, trying to banish my misery. The only thing I was sure of was that I hadn't been poisoned, I thought with dim, black amusement. Well, maybe that wasn't entirely true. I would only be able to detect magical attempts at poisoning. A healthy serving of cyanide would do me in as messily as the next bloke.

I would not faint. I would not faint. I would _not_ faint; I was _not_ delicate. I wouldn't...wouldn't...

I opened my eyes again to find that I had at one point slumped into a sitting position on the floor. Feeling not at all up to getting up and tackling the doorknob quite yet, I merely sat for a while. Nice, cool stone floor...I rested the back of my head against the wall and closed my eyes again. I slowly became aware of a slight humming nearly at the edge of my hearing, or--no. That was no sound. Not the kind that you hear with your ears, anyway. I reached out with my nullifying senses and tried to follow the strange mental noise. I forced my lids open and turned my head to origin of the buzzing. There.

It was a wall. I snorted and rubbed at my eyes. The sense was magical in nature, all right. But as to why someone would enchant a small portion of wall was beyond me. Why I was wasting time wondering about it, even more so. Something stabbed at my brain, something that felt suspiciously like a blunt pike, and I quickly shut off my nullifying.

"Ow," I whimpered. "Ow ow ow..."

Unable to delay the inevitable any further, I heaved to my feet, nearly gasping in shock as the hallway lurched and the dull pounding in my head became a frantically paced drumming.

"Oooh," I groaned. "For once, I really don't think I deserve this. Not _this_ bad. I didn't hurt the Slytherins too much. Ow. Ow! Okay, maybe. _They_ deserved it, though. Ow."

I had to try at the door several times before I could manage to get it open. The bed inside was unkempt and lumpy and very Slytherin in its dark green spread and silver thread, but it looked like heaven. I stumbled into it gratefully and closed my eyes, thinking that either sleep or death would be an acceptable end to my very long and trying day.

"You look peaked, dear."

I might have jerked in surprise if I'd felt well enough to move or even had the energy. As it was, I simply turned my head and spotted that portrait on the wall of the young woman, who studied me now with concern.

"Oh. You." My extreme fatigue leeched any hint of shock out of my voice, leaving it flat and inflectionless. I paused, thinking maybe that I should expand on that. It was difficult--thinking, that is. Not expanding. Ow. "Understatement."

She tsked at me, making her seem older than she looked, which was maybe mid-twenties. "Overtaxed yourself, have you?"

"I'm delusional now. You are a hallucination." Dimly, I wondered if this whole trip was a very long and detailed delusion. Or maybe my whole life. It would explain so many things. Or maybe it was a dream, and I slipped into a coma long ago, never to shake it off. Or maybe I was dead, and there was no heaven or hell or even reincarnation, just one hallucination, stretched out into infinity... My eyes crossed.

"No, I fear not," the portrait witch said with a laugh. "I am quite real, I assure you."

"You talk," I said dizzily, trying, without much success, to uncross my eyes.

"Yes," she replied patiently.

"You didn't before." I was truly a master of witty repartee.

"No. I am not always animated. Perhaps it is my fault. Though I _told_ Warin not to trust the painter, I didn't insist." Misinterpreting my blank look, she explained, "He had a shifty look about him." Then she sighed, studying something off in the distance with a faint smile. "But it was such a sudden fancy. We didn't think to question his abilities. And we never thought it would end as it did..."

"I see," I managed, hoping that it was an appropriate reply.

"He used very cheap paint," she continued, encouraged by my noncommittal response, "hardly any magic in it at all. And the canvas!" She wrinkled her nose ruefully. "You would find more magic in mote of dust."

At last my vision righted itself, and I could focus on the portrait again. Everything else, of course, was still screeching with pain. Unfortunately, since I'd have to live with her, I couldn't alienate her. That meant I couldn't outright ask her to please be quiet and give my throbbing head a rest. Resigned, I attempted to tune out the little screams. Not very successful, but I tried to converse anyway. "Oh. Hm. Uh, does--does it cause many problems for you?"

"Not for much longer," she said with a worn smile that complemented the portrait's ragged canvas and fading paint. "In a decade or less, I will be just like an unenchanted portrait. If even that."

I didn't know what to say. I'd never thought about portrait personalities dying before. How did you go about comforting a dying inanimate object that had feelings? For that matter, _did_ portraits have feelings?

"I'm sorry," I said. "I feel like I'm dying too." Instantly, I felt like a lout. What a thing to say...real sensitive of me. Joke about dying to a dying person.

Fortunately, she didn't seem to take offence. "That's what happens when you strain yourself nullifying."

"Wh--how did you know that's what I was doing? Does _everyone_ know what I'm up to?" I shook my head in bewilderment and then winced in regret as pain erupted behind my eyes. "First Lady Hufflepuff, then Lord Slytherin, then Salazar, now you."

"Hogwarts has its ways of spreading news to interested parties," the woman in the portrait said. "There are few secrets in this castle. In this case, I overheard Salazar. He tore through here just a while ago in one of his moods."

I sighed. That must have been after our little...discussion? Interrogation...? Row, maybe.

"I'm not certain what he was looking for, precisely, but he was muttering about--how did he phrase it?--'brainless boys with the sense of preservation of a halfwit.' Since you are the only young wizard I have seen in his company for a long while, I assumed this was you." Her eyes crinkled in amusement as I frowned.

"Well, thanks." Another spike of pain cut short what would probably have been a whinging retort. "_Ow_! How the fu--the blo--the _blazes_ do you get rid of these...magical hangovers?"

"Sleep is the only universal healing agent I know of, aside from death, which you seem to be considering presently." She was very obviously trying not to show any amusement at my pain. Not even an honest sadist, I groused. "Salazar might have a remedy or two, but then, he was always handy with potions."

"I suppose you've known him for quite a bit, hanging in his room for so long. Why does he keep you in his room? Who are you?"

"_Who_ am I? No, I'm not a true person, really." The portrait sounded as though she were trying to convince herself of that. "Who _was_ I, is the question you mean to ask. Portraits capture only the essence of the person they depict. We are preserved versions of them, stagnant and unchanging. My actual self died a few years after her portrait was painted. I am not she; I am she as she was."

"And she was...?" I prompted.

"Her name was Lady Alviva Vieuxpont." She flashed that half-hearted smile again, looking wistful. "Though you would perhaps know me--her--better as Lady Slytherin."

"Wh-Oh," I stammered. Bugger all, how would I be able to explain _that_ gap in my knowledge? Come to think of it, did she even know who I claimed to be? "Um. Of course."

"I see no reason why it should be obvious, dear," she said kindly. "Call me Alviva, if you'd like. Or grandmother, if you prefer." Well, that answered _that_ question. "I doubt you would hear much of me from Salazar. It pains him enough when I try to speak to him, so much so that I do not trouble him anymore. And to speak of me himself! Why, that would probably be worse."

"Nice to hear about another warm, loving mother-son relationship." It made me inexplicably bitter that Salazar was squandering this chance he had. What _I_ would give to have a chance to talk with my own mother...

"Please, don't judge him too harshly," she said softly. "He was there when I died."

Just like I had. That was no excuse.

Detecting my obstinacy, she moved on. "I wish that he had someone in whom to confide, if he will not have me. He harbours far too much hatred for Muggles and in particular, Muggleborns--all on my account, I fear--and he needs to purge himself of it before he does something he will regret."

"Oh. So you...what? Changed your mind about them later in life but it was too late to convince him?"

"Change my...?" Lady Slytherin looked confused for a moment. "Oh. No, I have never hated them. Rather the opposite, in fact. Some Mugglefolk mistrust our kind, perhaps with some reason, but I have always sought to help remedy that fear."

"How?" I asked with a smirk. "Magic shows at the town market?"

"My, how clever we are," she said dryly. "No, nothing quite so trivial. It takes far more than a few demonstrations of harmless magic after what they have witnessed and been subject to. There are far more wizards who would rather murder and steal from those who lack magic to protect themselves."

Wonderful. It was so comforting to have it confirmed, if my Slytherin Potions lesson today had left any doubt, that some things never changed. Like Muggle-hating.

"I spent much of my time in small Muggle villages and towns, posing as an herbalist, doing what I could to debunk their myths and superstitions."

I thought I could tell where this was headed.

"It is a delicate and painstaking task, but it did help!" The portrait took on a sudden animation as Lady Slytherin's eyes sparked with an angry light. "Wherever I found a wizard preying upon a town, I would live among the people for a time, gathering evidence of his crimes. Once I had enough, I passed in on to Warin."

"Warin?"

"My husband. He then took that evidence to the Council of Lords and they would move against the wizard. Often, permanently. Afterward, I tried to put the fears of the people at rest. I wasn't always successful, but many a tyrannical wizard feared the name Vieuxpont!" She bared her teeth in a ferocious smile, resembling for a moment a Valkyrie of legend: proud and dangerous and lethal. Dying leaves of autumn hues swirled about her in the portrait as a sudden wind picked up. "For a time, it seemed that I might eradicate all such...vultures from Britain."

"But then something went wrong," I guessed.

Her smile vanished and the wind stilled. Slytherins and their wind. Even the _mother_ was doing it, and she wasn't even related.

"Yes. I had many enemies, and my lord husband was--is--a Champion of Magic, an influential member of the Council of Lords. They defend the realm from those who practise the Dark Arts and are naturally not loved in such circles. Perhaps they wished to hurt him or draw him into their own destructive hatred for Muggles. Then again, it might have been only revenge against me."

"What? What did they do?"

"What would you have done? It was simply another town, and another disguise, and another attempt. Only I woke one morning to a pounding at my door and an angry crowd of frightened people, bearing torches and pitchforks. A trap, but I realised far too late."

"Oh," I said, beginning to realise.

"Yes. They made my death the perfect irony. A few wizards in Muggle disguise convinced the townsfolk that I had been one of a number of marauding wizards who had sacked the town a month before. They named me a spy and demanded I be put to death for my crimes."

"They didn't _burn_ you?" I asked, horrified.

"Burn me? Of course not...why should they do that?"

"But--isn't that what Muggles do to suspected witches?" I had done many a report on medieval burnings for Binns. "Doesn't the Church demand it?"

"No," she said, giving me a strange look. "We have no quarrel with the Roman Church. They deny our existence. In fact, a Muggle can be severely punished for claiming to have seen a witch, much less for killing a 'supposed' one, which only worsens their plight. They can't even ask for aid against their attackers."

"Oh." Right, the report had been on witch burning in the _fourteenth_ century. Wasn't my fault I had trouble thinking. Well, maybe it was. "How'd they kill you, then?"

"I think that my enemies used a few charms to whip the crowd into a frenzy. They went mad, falling upon me with knives and farming implements and clubs."

I stared at Lady Slytherin as she related the tale, feeling like I had absolutely nothing to be complaining about right now compared to her. "Um. I see. So then Salazar came? He saw you die?"

"Yes. He arrived too late. My true enemies had already fled. He frightened away the townspeople, killing some, blasting some out of his path...to no avail, I fear. My injuries were too many and too great, and I had lost so much blood. Salazar was no master of the healing arts; he has always belonged to the more destructive powers. He could offer me no comfort but to remain at my side as I died."

It was jarring to hear something so raw and horrific discussed so calmly and remotely. I wondered how much of that serenity was real and how much was put upon. Again, I wondered: did portraits have feelings? Memories?

"And that's why he hates them so," I marvelled.

"Yes. He had already fallen into bad company, much to our distress. He had no love for Mugglefolk before, and afterward...well, I suppose you know." She sounded very clinical, but then, I reasoned, she hadn't witnessed this herself, she had only learned of it later through what she heard as a portrait. Though it had sounded so real, like she'd actually been there... "But you do not? Hate them?"

"Me?" I asked, surprised by the question. "No. Never had a reason to." I thought briefly of the Dursleys and winced. "Well, I mean, they're just like us, except they don't have magic and don't live quite as long."

The young woman bestowed a pleased smile upon me. "It is a pleasure to speak to someone who does not look murderous at the mere mention of Muggles. I love Salazar dearly, but he can be so angry and so morose."

"Tell me about it," I muttered. Then a blinding flash of light danced across my vision and lanced through my head, bringing with it a sharp reminder of the pain Lady Slytherin's story had distracted me from. I yelped in pain. "Ow...that really bloody _hurts!_ Um. Pardon my language."

"Don't trouble yourself. Looks like rain," Lady Slytherin commented, gesturing at the high windows, which showed a grey and cloudy sky.

A low rumble followed, and I sighed. "Great. A storm." Try not to think about it, I told myself. Try to forget that your head feels ready to crack in two and that you're contemplating suicide as a method of treatment. Try to forget that you're going to have to eat dinner in a crowded, noisy hall of hundreds of students in only a few hours. Figures I would have it backwards: off to hell first and _then_ I get to die.

"You don't belong here." Lady Slytherin mused. "I would have seen you before, I am certain. Or Salazar would have said something."

I latched onto the implicit question gratefully for the distraction it offered. "Yeah, I'm a time-traveller from the future."

"I thought so," she said.

A question that had been plaguing me for a while now prodded me at this opportunity. "Why is everyone so comfortable with the concept of time-travel? I said I was from the future before, and no one even blinked."

"Oh," Lady Slytherin said with a laugh. "Do you not know? I can see how it might be confusing for you. The castle receives many travellers. Usually they come to advise my son and his companions how to build a certain part of the castle or to introduce a new system. Why, it was only at the suggestion of a time-traveller that Hogwarts offers Potions at all! It is more common for that to be taught in an apprenticeship."

"Apprenticeships. I take it they last longer here? Well, longer than five years?"

"Yes." She looked at me quizzically. "Unlike Mugglefolk, we live quite long and can spend more time training our children. An apprenticeship usually lasts ten years, and never less than eight."

That made me feel a bit better about Slytherin's comment about me and apprenticeships. "Oh."

"Things can't have changed so greatly in so little a time," she said almost to herself. "Or are they so different now? It has been almost fifty years since I was painted--nearly thirty since I awakened--therefore I am not so current with affairs. I suppose that given a few more decades, the customs of my day may be entirely outdated."

"Could be."

"Still, the future must be a wondrous place." At my sceptical expression, she laughed. "No, not yours. I mean the far future! Adelaide was very excited when the one old traveller built the toilets. To think! All the hot water you should like and no stench from refuse! To be sure, he nearly tore apart the castle building them with his endless lines of pipes, but they are a marvel."

Another mystery explained. "Yes. Running water and odour-free toilets. Truly fantastic."

Lady Slytherin caught on to my disinterest and smiled sheepishly. "Here I am, babbling on about things you have no doubt grown up with at Hogwarts! On to more interesting topics, hm?"

Another stab of pain made an interesting pattern of fireworks on the back of my eyelids. I gave a strained smile. "Sure." _Oh, please be quiet...nothing could be more interesting right now than your utter silence._

Unfortunately, she was no Legilimens. Or maybe she was just desperate for conversation. Her gaze travelled through the room, as if seeking out a topic for conversation. It fell upon one of the walls and stayed there. "Hm. You're a nullifier. Have you sensed the seal on the room in the hall? You must pass by it several times every day."

I opened my eyes. "Seal? You mean...so _that_ was what I felt. But why would someone seal off a room? Is it cursed?"

"Not cursed, no. Or...I suppose memory can be a curse. That sealed portion of wall is the door to your mother's former room. It was hidden with an illusion charm and sealed after her departure. He might open it for you, perhaps, if you asked." She didn't sound very confident of that.

The possibility of a tour of some dusty old room wasn't nearly so interesting as the piece of information she had given me. My "mother's" departure? That certainly added a new element to the intrigue! And, like most everyone else, she seemed rather certain about my mother's identity.

"Her departure?" I echoed. "Why did she leave?" At Lady Slytherin's look of suspicion I improvised hurriedly, "Um, they don't like to talk about...those days. Bad memories and all, you know how it is." Then again, maybe not. She didn't seem to have any problem at all with some really horrific memories.

"Strange that your mother didn't use it to impart a lesson on you," she mused, fiddling with a lock of unruly, windswept brown hair. "To be honest, I didn't know her very long, but I liked her. She impressed me as a solid girl of strong spirit who will disregard a bit of pain if there is benefit to it."

I cleared my thoat impatiently.

"Sorry. I do prattle, given half a chance! As I said before, your father had fallen into...bad company. He picked up many nasty habits. An awful fixation with--well, let us just say that he was casting spells and curses that could have earned him a swift exile, had Warin possessed the heart to catch him at it."

"That's right," I recalled. "You said Lord Slytherin was a Champion of Magic."

She nodded. "He felt betrayed, I think, that Salazar would practise the very curses he worked so tirelessly to eradicate from Britain. I don't know if your father will have told you, but your grandfather disowned him. After so many years of bitter quarrelling, I suppose it was inevitable." She paused thoughtfully. "I don't know what brought Salazar to his senses, his father's harsh treatment and scorn or your mother's disappearance."

Oh my. It was like hearing the summary of a bad Elizabethan tragedy. "Disappearance? You said she left, not that she disappeared."

"Perhaps both. She left a note, but Salazar could not pick up a single trace of her. She left no magical residue behind; he would have discovered it, if she had. From what I have heard from the other portraits, it was a..." there was a mother's sorrow in her voice, "a bad time for him. It forced him to see things about himself he would rather not have. He left the school and spent months trying to track her."

"But--why'd she leave?"

"She said that she couldn't sit idly and watch someone she loved slowly crush himself under the weight of his hatred, and that until he came to his senses, she would keep away." Lady Slytherin smiled sadly. "I would not have expected that of her. She didn't seem the type to run from her problems."

"It doesn't sound like it was her problem," I pointed out. "It was Salazar who was playing around with dark magic."

"Salazar was not playing," the portrait woman said, looking at me with grave eyes. "You cannot 'play' with dark magic."

I couldn't argue with that one. "Maybe she was afraid of being hurt."

Lady Slytherin seemed to consider this for a while before shaking her head. "No. As I said, she wouldn't shrink from personal harm. Not if she thought she could best it, given time."

"Well then maybe she was tired of it!" I snapped. I was unsure why I felt the need to defend some woman I didn't even know. "Tired of not knowing whether things were ever going to get any better."

"Hush, now," Lady Slytherin chided gently. "I mean no insult to your mother. She w-is a fine witch. I simply think that there was more to it than we know. She was not, as I said, the kind of woman who runs."

"Why should it be complicated?" I persisted, feeling stubborn. "Maybe she just had enough and needed some time to think things over and decide if this was really what she wanted."

"Maybe she could have spared herself all these years of separation if she had possessed the courage to confront Salazar herself."

I had that feeling that Salazar's lost woman would never find him, and felt strangely guilty for it. "It's really easy to talk about being brave," I said finally into the silence. "A lot harder to try it yourself."

"Of course," Lady Slytherin agreed with forced lightness. "I wouldn't know of such things. I have hardly had the--"

"Why'd he wait for her?" I interrupted.

"They were to be wed."

"Oh," I said softly, feeling even worse.

Now I knew why Slytherin had been so vulnerable and intent when he looked at me. Why he'd seemed so unusually...hopeful. It was because of me. _I'd_ restored his hope. After so long, he'd been ready to give up, and then I came along and gave it to him again. The false promise of having a family. I knew all about that. And I knew how it felt to lose it.

I felt tired. It wasn't the exhausted and spent weariness of doing too much magic--it was the kind that you could feel beneath your skin and lodged in your muscles, mixed with something else: the knowledge that my lies were really going to hurt someone now. Not that they hadn't before, but it was different this time. This time I actually _knew_ the person I'd be hurting. And maybe liked him a bit.

When the day arrived that Slytherin found out the truth about me--that he wouldn't be seeing my "mother" again--I wanted to be as far away as possible. Even worse, I knew that I would have to be there to explain myself, because some things were too much, even now. Once, it wouldn't even have been a question.

"What's wrong, dear? You've gone rather pale."

"I don't feel very good. I think I need to be alone for a little while," I said faintly.

"Oh." The portrait flashed her odd half-smile again, but I hardly noticed. "I am sorry. I did not mean to intrude." She laughed softly, without any heart in it. "But you need to talk, sometimes."

Slowly her movements stilled, the slight waving of her wild, loose hair in a wind long gone, the constant fiddling of her hands, the nuances of expression on her pretty, young face. The portrait settled with a kind of sigh as the life bleached out of it, leaving behind a picture of a radiantly happy woman grinning impishly at her audience. Just a picture.

"Wonderful," I whispered to the ceiling, closing my eyes, "just what I needed to finish my _fantastic_ day."

I stayed like that, eyes shut miserably, head pounding steadily and stomach churning queasily, wishing for sleep while listening to the thunder and wincing at the brief interruptions in the darkness of my room. I could smell rain, but it didn't help me fall asleep any. I was too tense with worry and emotion and even honest exhaustion for that.

An indeterminate time later, the door creaked open slowly. My eyes opened just as slowly. I could make out only a shape in the flooding light of the corridor outside my room, but the shape was familiar enough: Salazar Slytherin. I repressed the sudden hysterical urge to confess everything, my sense of self-preservation holding me back. It always kicks in just in time, I thought. It's the only thing I'm really good at. Surviving. You name it, I'll survive it. I'd probably survive the bloody apocalypse.

"I will admit to a certain apprehension at not receiving a single complaint from any of my students," he said, not moving from the door frame. He looked relaxed. He must have mastered his murderous fury.

"Ow," I replied in response to the torchlight streaming into the dark room from the corridor. Salazar was ridiculously talented at reducing me to monosyllabic responses, intentionally or not.

He closed the door behind him gently and waved at a few candles that obediently lit up. I winced and closed my eyes. "Why is it that you're always tormenting me while I'm abed?"

"It's my impeccable sense of timing," he answered, sounding amused. "You seem quite unwell. Could it be that you have overextended yourself?"

I fell gratefully into the rhythm of bantering. "Hah," I said sourly. "Rub it in, will you?"

"Fortunately, I have something that will help, however undeserving you might be." I heard the soft rustle of fabric on fabric. Then there was the _pop!_ of something being uncorked.

"Somehow I don't think that alcohol will be particularly kind to me in the morning on top of all this. Though in the short term, it has its merits." I opened my eyes. I was doing a lot of that today.

Slytherin shook his head at me. "Nothing quite so crude. This is a remedy of my own, invented more years back than I like to think. Amazing, really, what one can do when provided with the proper motivation."

I snapped my arm out, reaching for the potion. "Give."

Slytherin drew it back in time, which said a deal about his reflexes. "Not yet. First, what are you _not_ going to do in the future?"

"Nullify the students' potions," I said, forcing a note of contrition into my voice.

"A lesson well, if belatedly, learnt." He started prodding me with his wand, ignoring my yelps of protest. "Hm, as I thought. Second, I need you to expel the magic you nullified today."

"But they were potions," I protested. "Not spells."

"They are essentially the same, in terms of nullifying. You have absorbed too much magic. Normally, you would release any magic you nullified from a spell, am I correct?"

"Yeah. Otherwise I...I get magical indigestion, I suppose."

"Just so," he said, withdrawing his wand. "Let it out, boy."

"Harry," I corrected.

I sighed and worked on gathering the excess magic in me, the stuff I couldn't recognise as my own. Streams of yellows, reds, blues, and many other foreign colours responded to my attempts to draw them out. I focussed them into a single point in my hand and then panicked, unsure of where to point the beam of raw magical force as I didn't think Salazar particularly fancied a smouldering hole in the wall of his old quarters.

"Catch?" I hazarded.

Then the matter was taken out of my hands, in both the literal and the metaphorical sense, as the magic escaped from me in a swirling beam, as though some stress point had been reached and surpassed and something very much like a dam had just broken. Slytherin's hand was already in position. He caught the outburst and reflected it out the window. There was a muffled _squawk!_ and some feathers drifted into the room from the now broken window. The smell of burnt chicken wafted in slowly behind them.

A handful of feathers slowly fell toward my face, and I blew at them to divert their path. I felt a bit better, less high-strung. Embarrassed, to be sure, but not quite so miserable.

"Now you may have the potion," Slytherin said, thankfully making no comment about my blatant chicken-murder.

"To the birds," I quipped, not rising from the bed. I swallowed the potion in one quick gulp. Immediately I regretted it, as the taste had a chance to kick in. Like a decomposing carcass, swathed in refuse, writhing with maggots that burbled their way down to my stomach...and if I kept the internal commentary up, I just might make myself sick up.

"WHAT--" I choked. Clearing my throat as something cool went through my body starting at my toes and working slowly up, I tried again. "_What_ is the matter with you master potion brewers? Is there some book of rules I've never read that states it's forbidden to make a potion that tastes better than sweaty old socks?"

Salazar made no reply, he just watched me keenly for any ill response to his potion, as any brewer worth his salt would. The cooling sensation had finally made it to my overwhelmed, throbbing head. For just a second, my whole brain burned, like when you eat ice cream too quickly. Then, the burning cold vanished, to be replaced with a giddy clarity and blessed relief. I could have cried for happiness.

"Wow," I sighed. "Thanks."

"And now," Slytherin replied, "you will tell me just what you did to my Slytherins."

"What?" I asked, with a blank expression of injured innocence pure as a fresh dusting of snow. "You said that none of them came whinging to you."

"That's what worries me. You introduced yourself using a _Muggle_ surname." It was worrying how much venom he managed to inject into that one word. Muggle. At least he hadn't said "Mudblood," I thought with uncharacteristic optimism. "I should have received complaints in droves. You did _something_."

"Oh," I said carelessly. "This and that. A bit of discipline."

"You did something," he repeated, implacable as death and not looking nearly as inclined to mercy.

"Um," I hedged, "can't it just be because I am a _fantastic_ teacher? Wonderful with kids?"

The door pushed open again as Gryffindor hurried in, his mouth pulled into a tight frown of worry. "Salazar, there you are! I've been looking for you." When he spotted me in bed, he paused, visibly hesitating.

"I don't suppose you people have ever heard of knocking?" I complained, feeling fresh and bold after my abrupt release from pain. "It's really simple. Even you should be able to grasp it, Godric. You make your hand into a fist like this--see?--and then bring it with a goodly force against the--"

"Cute," Gryffindor interrupted. "Like a little puppy and he doesn't even piss on the floor. But we don't have time for this, Salazar."

"It's the potion I gave him," Salazar Slytherin said patiently. "Though, admittedly, the cheek is probably natural enough. Now, what is it?"

Gryffindor cast another cautious glance at me. "You are needed at the front gate," he said cryptically. "I left Rowena in charge so I could find you."

No trace of surprise escaped Slytherin, but he seemed to tense slightly. "Stay with Harry. If he shows any adverse reaction to the potion, fetch me immediately."

"No. I should go with you," Gryffindor said immediately. "You can be...excessive at times."

"Stay here."

Gryffindor waved his hands in futile protest. "This is a delicate--"

"Stay."

"You won't--"

"_Stay._"

"Yes, well," Gryffindor said reluctantly, "try not to kill anyone then."

Slytherin raised an eyebrow and left quickly and silently. Gryffindor rubbed his face with an exasperated huff and took a seat at the desk. He looked so uncharacteristically glum and frustrated sat there that worry began to penetrate through the dazing euphoria Salazar's potion had infused me with.

"What's wrong, anyway?" I asked.

Gryffindor hesitated, so briefly that no one who hadn't been watching for it would ever have caught it. "Nothing. Just school business."

"Sure it is. What's wrong? What kind of 'nothing' school business was enough for Salazar's personal attention?"

"There is a--a parent, who wishes to withdraw his child from the school, without the student's consent."

"And you think that Salazar might kill someone? Nope. Tell me." I tried on an imperious expression.

"Well done!" Gryffindor applauded. "The furrowed brow was an especially nice touch. But your lying in bed ruins the effect, I fear."

I thought about Slytherin's steely mix of imposing foreboding and aristocratic assertiveness. I sat up, smoothing down the sheets around me, and did my best to match it.

"_Tell me_."

"Flaming pits of hell, you sound just like him! And they say that we _Gryffindors_ are a domineering lot. We've nothing on you Slytherins." He studied me thoughtfully. "Well, I suppose it _is_ your business too. There are two men at the front gates, demanding entrance. They claim to be your protectors. Your keepers."

"They _what_?" I leapt out of bed. "My keepers? But...Remus? Sirius?"

"Why, yes," said Gryffindor, looking rather surprised. "You mean they actually are?"

"Did it never occur to you that maybe just _asking_ me would suffice?" I exclaimed, shoving my foot into the nearest boot, relying on even chance to guide me to the right one. "They followed me! I can't believe they _followed_ me. If they managed to, anyone might have!"

"They could be agents of Morass," Gryffindor pointed out reasonably, "disguised and sent to lure you out of the protection of the castle and its grounds."

"Morass wouldn't know their names, believe me. Wonderful. Someone's going to die," I said mournfully. "I know it." Glumly: "Probably going to be me."

I calculated the distance from my bed to the door and estimated how long it would take me to get there. Two seconds. Another two to open it. One to get out. A glance at Gryffindor. No, I would have to rely on guile if I wanted to slip out.

Gryffindor had followed my gaze and stood promptly, moving in front of the door to block it. "Absolutely not! Do I look suicidal to you?"

"If you're trying to block me, then yes. I need to be there," I said, trying once more to emulate Slytherin's smooth menace. "You will regret it if you don't let me out."

Gryffindor seemed to steel himself, weighing the immediate threat of my displeasure against the more impressive but also more distant threat of Slytherin's wrath at my interference. Interference in a matter of my own safety, he might pause to consider, I thought resentfully.

"No. Salazar would have my head once he finished removing yours."

I thrust my hands into my pockets with a sullen expression. Moving my fingers as imperceptibly as I could, I fished around for my wand and gripped it, drawing it out slowly. Then, thinking quickly, I manoeuvred it up the sleeve of my robes. I withdrew my hands with a defeated sigh and sat myself back down on the bed. Gryffindor relaxed in that instant and I took advantage of his inattention to whip out my wand.

"Stupefy!"

Gryffindor slumped to the floor. I dragged him to the desk and arranged him in his chair in a pose that suggested he'd fallen asleep. Just in case someone checked the room. I left, sealing the door behind me with as powerful a spell as I could think of. Not that I thought it would stop any persistent investigator, but it would slow them at the very least. Possibly they would erroneously assume that Gryffindor had cast it to protect me.

I fairly flew through the castle, deftly avoiding loud, curious portraits and loud, curious students. I discreetly slipped out of the front door, only to run into two wizards who looked like professional guards. They noted my out-of-breath condition dispassionately.

"Stop right there," one said with almost insulting laziness.

"I need--to-to get to the front gate," I panted. "It's an emergency!"

"It always is," the other guard said knowingly.

"What do you think it is this time, Milton?"

"Fire? Flood? Potions accident?" The first guard shrugged and added, "I overheard some students talking about the new Potions professor. Barmy fellow, they say, like as not to blow up the whole dungeon with his incompetence."

"Well, do you hear that, then?" The other guard looked at me archly. "Nothing less than the threat of imminent loss of life could persuade us to let you pass."

"But there is threat of imminent loss of life," I growled impatiently. "_Yours_."

Both of them burst into laughter, and I couldn't really blame them. After so many miserable hours in bed, my robes were rumpled and wrinkled. My hair, for all its length, was unruly and probably more resembled a rat's nest than a stylishly economical braid. Right now, I probably looked slightly less threatening than an armed squirrel.

I drew my wand slowly, deliberately. The two guards stiffened--they were amused, but still professionals. "Let me pass."

"Put down the wand, boy," one said calmly, his own wand ready at his side.

I was really beginning to loathe that epithet... Almost dancing with impatience, I scowled at them. "Don't be any more stupid than you have to be. First, would I even be inside the castle if I weren't allowed here? Second, I am obviously too old to be a student, so that must mean I'm a member of the staff. And third, _if I don't get to those gates within the next minute, I could very well die and so help me, I have nothing to lose so I'll have no qualms about taking you with me!_"

The two sentries exchanged nervous glances and seemed to be carrying on a private conversation based on expression and body language alone. Though I was no expert, I supplied my own dialogue that probably didn't differ all that much from what they were thinking: "Great, a loony one." "You don't say?" "What do we do now?" "Dunno. They don't pay us enough for this." "They don't pay us _shit_." "Stun the bastard, sort things out later." "What if he's someone important?" "What if he's _not_?" They both paused and considered me more carefully.

"I don't have time for this!" I seethed. "_Stupefy!_"

Yes, they were professionals. The guard in the path of the spell ducked and threw off a curse in response. I sidestepped it and tried again, this time aiming slightly to the side of him. In his attempt to avoid the impending curse, he stepped straight into it and fell to the ground. The other began spouting spells with furious speed. When ducking was no longer a feasible means of avoiding them, I winced and held out a hand, catching the magic and nullifying it.

Too bad I didn't know how to rebound a curse on its caster. That's what I think I did as a baby, when Voldemort cast the killing curse on me. Accidental magic, provoked by potentially fatal danger. Maybe Slytherin would know how.

"You--" gasped the remaining guard, looking suddenly uncertain.

Bugger. Probably thought I was one of Morass' nullifiers. Before he could recover, I released a shot of nullifying energy through one hand and cast a stunning spell with the other, trapping the guard between the two spell paths. I followed instantly with another stunning spell while he ducked, catching him on his way up. He sprawled on the ground and I caught my breath for a moment. My head twinged slightly. Best not to nullify anything else for a long time.

Then I continued on toward the front gate, half dreading what I might find, half expecting a bunch of corpses.

"Sirius?" I called tentatively, beginning to sprint. "Remus? Salazar?"

Then, inevitably, the shouting started.


	9. Upping the Stakes

Author: Aedalena  
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.  
_**This chapter:** Sirius and Remus think they're having a bad day. Then they get to meet Salazar. Harry drops some eaves. Repeatedly. Gryffindor is acting strangely. Ravenclaw is suspicious. Helga is mentioned. Once. No, wait, twice.

**NULLIFIER  
**Chapter Eight: Upping the Stakes

"_With lies you may go ahead in the world, but you can never go back.." –Russian Proverb_

* * *

Running from building to building in Hogsmeade for seemingly hours dodging Death Eaters was not what Remus Lupin generally considered a pleasant way to spend his time. Unfortunately, when you happened to be close to Harry Potter, the most chaotically catalytic person perhaps ever to live, such situations were less an exception to the norm than a way of life.

This, Remus thought, could be described as the lengthiest, most unpleasant day he'd experienced in a very long time. Could, except that those adjectives were actually far too mild; Sirius always had been better at expressing himself when it came to invective. His friend had spent much of the day muttering expletive after expletive under his breath, a colourful stream of adjectives, nouns, and four-letter words that only occasionally formed a coherent sentence.

Still, it seemed to make Sirius feel better, so there might be something to it.

Encountering a Death Eater or two didn't merit much complaint under usual circumstances, especially given the current state of affairs in the wizarding world. But the fact that _these_ particular Death Eaters were a thousand years in the past, in a place that was supposed to be safe enough to send Harry—a place where he could actually be anonymous—forced a rapid reclassification of the situation. Mildly dangerous no longer: this was disastrous.

Bellatrix Lestrange, one of Voldemort's most crazed followers, several twigs short of a broomstick, and sadistic enough to make a game of cat-and-mouse look like a friendly round of Exploding Snap. Here. The one Death Eater that Harry would actively seek out and kill, with no hesitation, if he knew she was about. Within mere kilometres of Harry.

And for several uncomfortable seconds in Hogsmeade, she'd been within mere _metres_ of Sirius and him. The three of them had frozen initially in surprise. Sirius had been the first to react, throwing a nasty hex at his cousin, who'd leapt behind a market stall to counter with a few select spells from her deadly arsenal.

Then another Death Eater—the cold-eyed veteran of the Dark Arts, Mulciber—had appeared out of seemingly nowhere to join the fray. The chance encounter had rapidly escalated into a full blown battle, with confused bystanders caught in the middle. When the Death Eaters showed no sign of tiring and it became apparent that more innocents were being harmed than the enemy, he and Sirius had slipped away, even more anxious to reach Harry.

Coming to Hogwarts had, Remus reflected, seemed like a good idea at the time. Not wishing to lead the Death Eaters to the secret passage into Hogwarts, they had apparated to the neighbouring Forbidden Forest, which was the closest they dared approach Hogwarts' anti-apparation wards, and walked almost all the way to the front gates without challenge. Then, perhaps inevitably, everything started to go wrong. Wrong_er_.

First, the full-body bind—unpleasant as usual—followed by a duo of wizards, a witch trailing mere steps behind, none of whom looked particularly pleased to see them. Sirius and Godric Gryffindor—yes, _the _Godric Gryffindor—exchanged heated words, and when Sirius mentioned Harry, it became obvious that they'd passed rock bottom by this point and Hard Luck was now improvising.

It wasn't fair, Remus thought with a pained kind of bewilderment. Even Harry's _name_ was enough to plunge things into chaos. He didn't even have to _be_ there.

Godric Gryffindor left them at a half-trot to fetch Salazar Slytherin, leaving Rowena Ravenclaw and her nameless wizard companion to guard them with steady wands. And then, against all odds, the whole disastrous affair took a turn for the worse.

What were they doing? Slytherin demanded. Did they think him a simpleton? That he couldn't recognise their intrusion for what it was? Obviously they were here to infiltrate the castle and abduct Harry or worse. And did they think they could fool him with such fantastic stories? Admittedly, they were well-informed, but Morass—whoever that was—possessed a formidable network of spies, so it wasn't surprising. In fact, he'd been _expecting_ some far-fetched scheme like this, though he'd thought Morass more capable than this, et cetera.

Remus resisted the urge to rub his eyes tiredly as Sirius' face grew increasingly redder with anger and impatience. Slytherin didn't look too composed himself. Though the legendary wizard had initially delivered his accusations at a conversational volume, his voice was starting to grow louder as his exchange with Sirius heated.

"Just call him down!" Sirius shouted, his whole body rigid from what Remus recognised as a heroic effort not to strangle Slytherin. "Call Harry and let him tell you!"

"And certainly you have no Portkey hidden on you, ready to transport yourselves and him away the instant you touch him," Slytherin said. His very white face was quite the contrast to Sirius's, which now matched his scarlet robes.

"Salazar," interrupted Ravenclaw, who had remained composed, if faintly amused, throughout the shouting, "surely it can do no harm to summon Harry? He needn't draw very close to identify these men."

"This is my affair, Rowena," Slytherin hissed, sounding disturbingly like the dark wizard he was purported to be. "Kindly stay out of it."

"Very well," Ravenclaw said with a sudden smile, "but I doubt that Harry will accept your unassailable authority."

Slytherin frowned, obviously taken aback by Ravenclaw's sudden cooperation. "And? He's safe in the castle, not—"

"...heading here just now?" the witch suggested, gesturing at a rapidly approaching figure: Harry.

Remus breathed out a sigh of relief as he reached them. Harry paused briefly, looking round, his gaze lingering on each wizard for an assessing moment before moving on. Probably making sure that all limbs were intact, Remus thought dryly.

"Yes, they are exactly who they say they are," Harry said without prompting, turning to face Slytherin. "Old friends of my mother. Thank you so kindly for _asking_. Before you ask—assuming, of course, that you _would_, which is doubtful—no, they won't hurt me."

The two exchanged identical glares, and Remus was struck by the uncanny resemblance between them. When he'd first seen Slytherin, he hadn't really noticed it, probably because Slytherin's cold, aloof manner was so unlike Harry. But now that they were stood side by side, he couldn't believe that he hadn't seen it immediately. Slytherin's hair was far better behaved, he was taller, and his eyes were a more natural grey-green, but they shared an eerily similar facial structure. Still, there was something softer, something less _hawkish_ about Harry's face that recalled Lily. And those narrowed, thick-lashed eyes were completely hers.

In fact, Slytherin looked more like James than Harry, he realised. It had been decades since he'd last seen his friend, but comparing Slytherin to the James Potter of his memory, Remus felt a cold chill. It shouldn't be possible, that anyone should encounter two nearly identical wizards in his lifetime. Similar, perhaps, but to _this_ degree?

Remus wondered, suspiciously, if there was more to this than coincidence. Could time travel be involved? But he couldn't see how—that would require either Slytherin to have travelled to the future or James to the past. He'd grown up with James, and was firmly convinced that it hadn't been Slytherin; he'd also seen James' dead body and watched sombre members of the Order heave the last shovel of dirt onto his and Lily's grave. Heard the horrible, cold sound of finality in the feathery thud of damp dirt landing on damp dirt.

He shook himself. Dwelling on the past wouldn't help him make sense of it. Until he found evidence indicating otherwise, he reluctantly conceded, he would have to put this down as coincidence.

"Won't hurt you? That's what _you_ think," Sirius muttered, casting a dark glower at his godson.

Remus nearly groaned. Of all the times to threaten Harry, even half-seriously...! In an instant, Slytherin had interposed himself between Harry and Sirius, his wand drawn threateningly in one hand, his other hand held at chest level with the fingers outspread in a pose Remus recognised as one Harry used to catch and nullify incoming curses. Harry swore and tried to move around his unwanted keeper, but Slytherin checked Harry's attempt with an outstretched arm and pushed him back, not once moving his wand or gaze.

"You will stay right there," he said calmly, "until I have disarmed and thoroughly searched these two alleged friends of yours."

A rather heavy emphasis on 'alleged,' Remus noted with the barest of winces.

"Fine, fine," Harry said, tensing for another lunge.

"And if you try that again, I will immobilise you," Slytherin murmured, still staring straight ahead.

To Remus' shock, Harry froze, his expression unreadable, and then took a step back. It was borderline obedient—a virtue that Harry definitely did not possess in any quantity capable of being measured.

"Listen here—" Sirius began.

"No," Slytherin interrupted, flicking his wand at Sirius. "You. Step over to Lady Ravenclaw. Slowly. With your hands outstretched. She will search you. First, give your wand to me. No sudden movements."

Sirius, who thought tact was something that happened to other people, looked ready to protest. Remus cut him short with an adamant jerk of his head that he hoped read _stop provoking the dark wizard who has his wand pointed directly at us._ A tight set to his lips, Sirius obeyed. He handed his wand to Slytherin with a disgusted expression before giving himself over to the willowy Lady Ravenclaw to be searched. After a quick but thorough full-body sweep, she pronounced him clean.

"_Now_ may I go and speak to him?" Harry asked, looking as though he were truly trying to be diplomatic. Remus stared. "Or would you like to check that he hasn't taken some kind of potion that causes him to—I don't know—secrete poison through his skin? Explode once I touch him? Or any other equally implausible paranoid suspicion?" There. Vintage Harry; Remus relaxed.

"I see that caution is a foreign concept to you," Slytherin remarked, unruffled by Harry's sarcasm. "You've managed to wait this long; you can wait until this one is searched. Then we shall see."

Slytherin nodded at Remus, and he stepped forward cautiously, holding out his wand. Slytherin took it, and Remus could feel his stare on his back as he walked over to Ravenclaw. She began searching him, quick and efficient. Then she came across the Tempus Orb. She frowned and swept her wand over it. The tip flashed green and she backed up in alarm.

"Salazar! A Portkey..."

Slytherin's eyes widened fractionally when he saw the Orb—in recognition?—before narrowing in a terrifying rage. Then he locked gazes with Remus and raised his wand wordlessly, the tip lighting with a dangerous orange glow. Sirius lunged for Slytherin, but Ravenclaw stunned him before grabbing hold of Remus' arm. He could break her grip if he really needed, but his instincts told him that resistance could only hurt his credibility. He just hoped that his instincts weren't mistaking Slytherin for James.

He breathed out slowly, and waited for Slytherin's curse to hit. His lycanthropy, which granted him a minor immunity to most curses, would prevent him from absorbing too much damage from the spell.

With inhuman reflexes, Harry dived into the path of Slytherin's curse just as the founder released it, catching the spell in his hand, and throwing it towards the Forbidden Forest. The sounds of a distant explosion and subsequent blinding flash of light drew an involuntary gasp from Remus. He should have realised that Slytherin wouldn't hesitate to use a deadly curse. He'd just barely escaped being...not killed, but _disintegrated_.

With a pained gasp, Harry dropped to one knee, eyes clenched tightly shut. Remus started forward to help him, but Ravenclaw's companion took hold of his other arm. Slytherin jerked Harry to his feet, face impassive. A cruel face, Remus thought to himself. One that smiled seldom. Nothing like James. Another hiss of pain escaped Harry.

"Don't interfere," Slytherin said; was there a note of concern in that flat statement or was Remus imagining it?

"Don't curse my friends," Harry retorted through gritted teeth, swaying slightly. His face was rapidly losing colour, and Remus had the sinking feeling that unless they explained the situation quickly, Harry would pass out and leave them to Slytherin's not so tender mercy.

"I'm not going to use this on Harry," Remus explained hurriedly. He thought up a semi-true explanation. "It is meant for fleeing from dangerous situations."

"Don't lie," Slytherin said coldly. "I know what that is, and I know who gave it to you."

He and Harry exchanged puzzled glances; Remus noted with worry the shallowness of Harry's breathing. Focussing back on Slytherin, he shook his head. "I don't know what you mean—"

"The last time I saw one of these was in one of Morass' labs. His pet project." At last, a hint of emotion crossed Slytherin's face: regret. "His Timekeys. A failure, but I see he has put them to other uses."

Morass. Slytherin had mentioned him before. Remus didn't know who the wizard was, but the implications were staggering. He must be the man who had enchanted the Tempus Orbs. That would mean there was a man alive _right now_ who knew how to construct a time-travel device. If Lestrange and Mulciber learned his secrets, or worse, captured this wizard...

"They're not followers of Morass," Harry protested with a resigned look that suggested he'd gone through all this before. "You thought that before about me, remember?"

"Nevertheless, we did imprison and question you until we were certain, and you at least did not attempt to smuggle a Portkey onto school grounds."

Appalled, Remus stared at Slytherin. He studied Harry more carefully, looking for signs of torture. Slytherin's behaviour thus far towards Harry had been of an oddly protective nature, but Remus rather suspected that Slytherin's resemblance to James _was_ influencing his perception. After all, the founder had also been very authoritative—even threatening—which could hint at a more sinister relationship between the two. Like that of captor and prisoner. Harry sported no visible injuries, but faint circles showed under his eyes; he looked thinner than usual, and pale.

"Well, why not stick with what works?" Harry said, somehow finding the energy to be ironic. "If it takes imprisonment and interrogation to appease you, fine. They, unlike execution, at least leave you with options."

"Oh for—" Ravenclaw broke off disgustedly, shaking her head. "Salazar, let me take the Timekey from him, and then we can see to arranging appropriate quarters for our guests."

It was uncanny how she could make an innocent phrase like "appropriate quarters" sound so foreboding.

"And have them near the students?"

"You let _him_ near them," she said, gesturing at Harry—who gave a mocking half-bow that nearly made him fall over, "and they have managed to survive. Surely that's worth something. There are some rooms in the dungeon we can use."

"No," Slytherin said, an odd smile on his face. "I have a better place in mind."

Harry looked confused for a moment, and then worried. "I need to speak to them first."

"Wait," Ravenclaw said, pulling a dragonskin glove out of her robes and slipping it onto one hand. She reached into Remus' pocket and carefully withdrew the Tempus Orb. "Osric, the dragonhide bag?" Her silent companion handed Ravenclaw a worn, dark green bag. She slipped the orb into the small pouch and tied it securely shut. "There. I think it's activated by voice and not touch, but it's better to take precautions."

Slytherin nodded approvingly at Ravenclaw, and woke the unconscious Sirius with an ennervating spell. Sirius groaned and stumbled to his feet, mustering a cross-eyed glare at Slytherin that didn't intimidate half so much as it seemed to amuse him.

"Bastard."

"Sirius," Harry said, looking apologetic.

He whirled on his godson, eyes alight with fury and half sick with relief at finding Harry safe. "No...I don't want to hear any of your excuses, Harry. Not this time. Do you even realise how reckless you've been? How utterly—"

"Very rich, coming from you."

"I'm not the one being hunted by Death Eaters! You could have been captured, or killed!" Sirius glared at Harry until he looked away and shrugged, conceding the point. Then, concern replaced anger as he noticed Harry's condition for the first time; he frowned. "Merlin, you look terrible. What has that snake been doing to you? Are you all right?"

Harry ignored the question. "Sirius, there are some things we need to discuss privately."

This just set Sirius off again. "No, there are _several_ things we need to discuss. Like what possessed you to go time travelling without a whit of preparation. Without equipping yourself or learning anything about your destination. Without telling me and Remus what you were planning. Going alone. Unprepared! And that's only half of the list! How does any of this _begin_ to resemble a good idea?"

"Oh, and of _course_ you wouldn't have done the same when you were my age!" Then, likely remembering that Sirius had been in Azkaban at twenty-three, Harry winced guiltily. He chewed his lip and glanced at Slytherin before waving his wand to erect an impenetrable charm around Sirius, Remus, and him to keep their conversation private. He closed his eyes briefly in pain, before looking up at his godfather.

"Before we get too angry to speak, I need to update you on my situation here." He waited for them to nod before continuing. He sighed. "I guess I should get this out of the way, first: Slytherin thinks I'm his son."

Remus felt his heart jump in his chest. He opened his mouth and closed it, shaking his head in mute disbelief, not even daring to steal a glance at Sirius.

Harry laughed shakily at their expressions. "Bad idea, I know. Even for me. But they made some assumptions, and I thought that I would have more freedom from suspicion and questions if I was family. And you can't deny that we look a lot alike."

"Harry—"

"No, I need to finish. Another minute or two, and I'll pass out." His matter-of-factness about his weak condition was mildly disturbing.

Reluctantly, Remus subsided.

"Slytherin thinks I'm from the near future, maybe twenty-five or thirty years from now. Whatever you say, _don't_ tell him anything that might lead him to think otherwise. He'll kill me," Harry said, sounding completely serious.

Remus stole a glance at Slytherin, looking away with an uneasy feeling.

"I mean it. Um, what else? Um...don't say anything about my mum, don't let on that she's Muggleborn. Don't let on that _you're_ a Halfblood, Remus; I think it's mostly Muggleborns he doesn't like, but better not to risk it. Sirius, you should be fine. Plenty of Blacks about."

Sirius scowled, and a smile flickered on Harry's face before being replaced by that odd, sombre expression. "It would be best if you say nothing about the future. That's the excuse I've been using, that I'm not allowed to say anything. If he asks, Voldemort wants to kill me because I'm a nullifier. Don't say anything about my scar or the prophecy. And don't...don't..." he trailed off, eyes slightly unfocussed. "I—where was I?"

"Harry?" Remus placed a hand on his shoulder. "Do you need to rest a moment?"

"No, almost done, promise. This Morass he's been talking about? Scary wizard. He's trying to take over Britain. It's the fashionable thing to do, I guess; never seems to go out of style. He and the rest of the country are at a stalemate, from what I can tell. All he needs is the last two nullifiers, me and Salazar, to win." He smiled bitterly. "Same story, different book, right? With us, he can finally capture Hogwarts, and then we're probably disposable. That's why Salazar's so cautious. Don't do _anything_ that might suggest to him, however indirectly, that you might be working for Morass. He doesn't trust outsiders."

Now _that_ was an understatement. "That's why you lied to him?" Remus asked, watching Harry's expression carefully.

"I didn't _lie_. He just assumed and I...let him. But—yes, that's why," Harry said, sounding flustered. "To gain his trust."

"Harry."

"It's true," he protested.

"Hm," Remus said, unconvinced. "Lie by omission, then."

"I guess. I just wish—things could go right for once. Or, barring that, that I could go one day here without passing out." Harry murmured, slumping back into Remus's arms.

Sirius stood, immobile for a moment, before moving over to them. Remus gingerly transferred Harry's limp form to Sirius, who handled him gently, though his mouth was still tight with anger. Remus removed the impenetrable charm, and Slytherin rushed over to them. Sirius looked ready to hex him, wand or no, so Remus placed a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Before you start tossing round accusations like you do curses," Remus said to Slytherin, "allow me to disappoint you. We did nothing to him. I suspect that you're mostly to blame for his condition. Merlin knows what he's been through with you, and that was a powerful curse, whatever it was."

Slytherin nodded reluctant agreement. "Rowena, if you would take Harry? Have Helga look at him before you return him to his quarters. You'll find Godric there, likely in no better condition. I'll be having some words with _him_ later."

Ravenclaw pursed her lips. "Is that fair? We've seen how vicious Harry can be. Can you really blame Godric for being bested? He was likely caught off guard."

"Godric should know by now not to let his guard down. Morass will not fight fairly." Slytherin frowned slightly in what almost looked like... concern?

"Very well," she said, smiling as if to reassure him. She turned to Remus, and the friendly expression on her face iced over in seconds. "Put him down."

Remus complied, and Ravenclaw levitated Harry. Her feelings toward him were ambivalent, from what Remus could discern. Some of her coldness thawed, but there was a lingering mistrust in her eyes as she regarded him. Harry didn't have everyone convinced. Without another word, she and her companion started back up to the castle, Harry floating ahead of them.

That left him and Sirius alone with Slytherin, who looked like he was reaching a decision about something. Whether he would kill them or not, perhaps. Remus waited uneasily, feeling helpless without his wand and without the Tempus Orb.

Then Slytherin smiled, but instead of conveying any friendliness, the smile made him look crueller, sinister. More and more unlike James, Remus thought. More and more disconcerting. Slytherin waved his wand almost carelessly, and rope shot from it and wound tightly round Sirius and Remus, pinning their arms to their sides. It was not quite difficult to breathe, but close.

"My role as your host dictates that I show you to your rooms," Slytherin said. "Far be it from me to ignore the codes of hospitality. If you would follow me?"

Remus thought that probably only a fool would willingly follow Slytherin into his stronghold, but Harry was there. With the edgy feeling that he might regret this later, Remus trailed behind Slytherin as he led them up to Hogwarts, pausing briefly at the gates. Two anxious wizards who looked like sentries watched them approach, their expressions guilty.

"Bugger. I _knew_ the kid was trouble," Remus heard one of them mutter, with his lycanthropy enhanced hearing.

"And I knew there was a reason Ravenclaw didn't say anything...she was saving us for Slytherin. Damn."

"What do we even pay you for?" Slytherin demanded as he strode past them. "If I want foolish clowning and flagrant incompetence, I have a school full of witless idiots tripping over themselves to oblige."

The sound of silence trailed behind them for a moment, then, at the edge of his hearing, Remus heard hushed whispers.

"What do you think's wrong? That barely counts as a reprimand, from him."

"Yes, and did you see his face?"

"Even worse than I thought."

"Probably saving it for someone else. Do you think he's going to kill...?"

Fainter still: "Least it's not us. Those poor sods."

Then they were inside, and it was too late to turn back.

* * *

Just once, I would like to wake up actually _remembering_ having gone to sleep in my bed, and not feeling like someone had taken a hammer and chisel to my skull in a botched attempt at murder. Would that they had succeeded.

In a rare stroke of good fortune, some infinitely merciful soul had closed the shutters on the windows, so when I opened my eyes, it was to grey darkness. A few rays of light strayed in; the only indication I had that it was not, indeed, night. How long had I been out this time? My internal clock had to be screwed to hell by this point.

I rubbed my eyes and worked myself into a sitting position, wincing the whole way up. Not only did someone just about pound my skull in, but the bastard must have taken the same great bloody hammer to the rest of my body. I ached in places I hadn't known existed.

At least there was no mirror. Small favours. Little compensations for the pains of life, all that keep us from welcoming madness. It was a very thin layer of insulation, I thought darkly. Life's few benevolent moments barely stretched from one to the next.

I rubbed my whole face, my arms creaking in protest. I felt _old_. It struck me as particularly unfair that I should be so utterly sore all over without having done anything physical enough to merit the feeling. Nullify a potion here and there, nullify some more...

My brow crinkled. What _had_ happened? I started with what I could remember. Potions with Gryffindor, row with elder and younger Slytherin, then potions with Slytherins...and then...oh, right, that long conversation with the portrait—Salazar's mother. And the headache throughout. And then Salazar again, bringing his peace offering. The potion. And then...

"Oh dear," I said mildly, restricting myself to Remus-level profanity, because to fully vent would require an effort I was not yet capable of expending.

Remus. Sirius. Me babbling. Salazar going into protective overdrive. Nullifying that potently nasty curse. The fragments assembled themselves into a patchwork of memory that painted a bleak picture.

So I had been right. Dumbledore was unable to just leave me alone. He must have planned to send me with a few trusted members of the Order—including Sirius and Remus so that it didn't feel completely like a guard detail—to make certain I didn't do anything undesired. Like get myself killed. Or stay.

But I had bollocksed up his careful plans. Again. It was a special talent of mine. The Tempus Orb, I reasoned, must have been triggered to transfer to Remus upon activation. Naturally; he was the responsible one.

It was just our ill luck that Salazar had insisted on a search and Lady Ravenclaw had used a spell that could detect not just normal Portkeys, but also Portkeys through time. Or Timekeys, as Salazar had called them. The same Timekeys that Morass had experimented with? Did that mean he had succeeded? Or would succeed? And then...

"Not possible," I said again as more memories surfaced. "How can that many bad things to happen in one day? It has to be written down, somewhere on some holy tablet or another, that Enough Is Enough, and The Poor Sod Must Survive Till The Next Day To Be Tortured Again."

I could remember speaking to them alone in the sound-dampening bubble, trying to explain myself and keep us from being killed, drained from pain and exhaustion. Then a blank nothingness. I must have passed out.

What had happened to them? Surely Slytherin hadn't...? Dread and panic lent me strength. I tensed, bracing to struggle to my feet. Just like swimming, I told myself.

When I was too young to be left alone, the lack of someone to watch me sometimes forced the reluctant Dursleys to take me with them swimming. Dudley had always been slow about getting in; one agonising inch of skin slipping into the water followed by another tentative inch.

Quite aware of my my aunt and uncle's animosity towards me, I'd known I would have precious little time to spend in the water before they realised I was enjoying myself and pulled me out. So whenever Dudley pushed me into the cold water, I didn't mind. The cold was brief, best to get it over with and enjoy a few minutes of Dudley-free swimming.

A muscle cramped and set my nerves on fire, bringing me out of the past and back to the very painful present. I gingerly massaged the offending limb.

"Stop procrastinating and get it over with," I berated myself.

I fought to my feet, almost falling back down again as the world melted into a screen of black and white spots swirling before my eyes and the air began to push against my head on all sides. I stood a very long while, breathing and waiting for the pain to pass, which I knew from experience it would. Otherwise I might have just sat right back down again.

Eventually, my nerves stopped rebelling—when I stayed still long enough, anyway. My attention turned to less important manners. Hygiene, for one. My scalp itched, indicating that a shower would not go unappreciated. And a shave, too. No time now, I thought regretfully as I rubbed the roughness on my cheeks. I was still dressed, my robes wrinkled. Very glad there was no mirror.

I didn't bother taking my hair out of its frayed braid. The resulting mess usually filled up twice the volume hair should. Sometime soon I would have it cut short again, if only in the name of convenience. Granted, the longer it was, the more options I had, but I really could do without waking up some mornings with what closely resembled an electrocuted squirrel adorning my head.

My wand was on the desk; I reached over and picked it up, stashing it in a pocket. I walked very gingerly over to the portrait of Lady Slytherin in the vague hope that moving at a fractional speed might lessen the aching. It only prolonged it. I gave up and walked at a normal pace the last few steps.

The portrait was still. Experimentally, I prodded it with my wand. The whole frame shivered for a moment and the picture came sluggishly to life. Lady Slytherin animated, and when she focussed on me, she smiled uncertainly.

"Good...is it afternoon yet? I can never tell with the poor lighting. Why Salazar couldn't choose a room with proper windows, I cannot fatho—"

"Listen," I interrupted, having neither the time nor the patience for morning pleasantries, "who brought me here last...evening?"

"Rowena," she supplied promptly.

I digested that. "Oh. That's not so bad, I guess."

"Don't be so certain of that," she cautioned me. "Rowena is formidable in her own way, and you would be wise not to underestimate her. Salazar arrived here not long after she left."

"Grand," I groused. Then, worrying how he might have reacted to my fainting spell, I asked, "And...how was he?"

"In such a fury as I haven't seen in years. Godric was fortunate that Rowena had woken him. Had he not made his escape earlier, he might have suffered more than a slight headache for the pains of guarding you. The portraits I've spoken to tell me that he's been quite tense this whole morning. No doubt worried about confronting Salazar. He does so hate to disappoint him."

"Ah." Gryffindor was certainly not going to be happy with me for some time. Oh well, such was often the case with people unfortunate enough to have to deal with me for any extended length of time. "Was there anyone with Salazar?"

"Yes, two wizards."

"Um, alive, I hope?" I felt compelled to ask.

"My son is no murderer," the lady in the portrait said defensively. "He only kills with very good cause." I remembered the curse he threw at Remus, and some of my scepticism must have showed on my face, because Lady Slytherin was swift to reassure me, "Yes, they were alive—though neither seemed pleased to be in my son's company."

"Is anyone ever?" I muttered under my breath.

So, Sirius and Remus had been alive as of last evening.

This was mildly encouraging.

"Did he say anything?"

She shook her head. "Not a word."

"Nothing about where he might be taking those two wizards?" A vague memory stirred, one that felt important, but it remained elusive for all my efforts to recall.

"I would assume the dungeons."

The dungeons? No, that was what Lady Ravenclaw had suggested, but Salazar hadn't wanted to. Instead...instead, I remembered, he had said...

...that he had a better place in mind. I frowned thoughtfully. Now, considering his state of mind at the time, "better" could probably be more accurately translated as "particularly inhospitable," or perhaps even "potentially fatal."

I tried to think of any place in Hogwarts I knew would fit either criteria. Forbidden Forest? No, too far out of his control. The Room of Requirement, appropriately furnished to fit what he had in mind? Did it even exist now?

No, I realised suddenly. There was worse.

This was Salazar Slytherin.

Slytherin.

Second year. The Heir of Slytherin.

The Chamber! Merlin, but I was slow this morning!

"Harry?" Lady Slytherin said, peering at me with concern. "You've gone pale, are you certain you shouldn't still be abed?"

"No, I'm fine," I said faintly, telling myself firmly that this was not an ideal time for panic. "Um, this might seem like a strange question, but...does Salazar have a basilisk?"

"A basilisk?" Her eyebrows rose in surprise. "No, certainly not...why, he wouldn't bring such a dangerous creature into a school of children!"

...Except for the fact that he _did_. Or had. Or would. Bloody tenses. "You're sure?"

"Yes. No such creature has ever passed through these school's halls."

"Is there any possibility of you being wrong?"

"No. All the school's portraits are in regular contact with one another. If there was indeed a basilisk and I did not see it, another would have."

Though slightly unnerved at learning the extent of spying that went on in the school, I allowed myself a relieved sigh, and some of my tension subsided. This time, the Chamber would be empty except for Sirius and Remus. Hopefully. If need be, I could always slip in there and free them. In the meantime...my efforts would probably be best spent convincing Salazar to practice his unique brand of paranoia on someone else's friends.

"Thanks," I said, suddenly aware of my manners—or lack thereof. "You've been very helpful."

"I try." She sighed. "And I suppose you will be off now?"

She looked so forlorn that I felt a flicker of guilt. I wasn't sure why, but there it was. I studied the door with a sudden intensity to avoid looking at her again. "Afraid so. It was nice talking to you, though. Um, do you know where I might find Sal-um, my father this morning?"

"You might try—" She broke off abruptly, and I turned to see what was the matter.

The picture was still. I tried tapping it with my wand again, but it refused to come back to life. With a regretful shake of my head, I changed into a fresher set of robes and left the room. I'd blunder into Salazar eventually.

* * *

In a universe that delighted in thwarting me, "eventually" proved, perhaps inevitably, to be overly optimistic. It was more than an hour before my ears picked up the faint sound of Salazar's voice, coming from a door in a very quiet corridor that I hadn't been through before. Another voice began speaking. I moved closer, taking care to be very quiet, feeling ridiculously like a detective in a bad mystery novel.

"...is who he claims to be and perhaps not, but he's lied about some very important things, Salazar."

Rowena Ravenclaw. Talking about me, it sounded like. I swore silently. I should have known she would be suspicious. There were almost enough inconsistencies in my cover story to alert even a Hufflepuff that I was lying about _something_. Then I remembered Lady Hufflepuff's gentle humour and perceptiveness and corrected myself. To alert an _average_ Hufflepuff.

"I am aware of that, thank you. I'm not blind." He was silent, and when he spoke again, he sounded frustrated. "I know he lied about knowing me. He doesn't, of course...it's blatantly obvious whenever he speaks to me. He's so stiffly formal and uncomfortable most of the time."

But I _hadn't_ lied, I thought indignantly. Sure, insinuated some, but I hadn't lied this time. _But it's the same thing, isn't it? One is just words._ My indignation left me in a quiet sigh.

"Yes, his calling you Slytherin or Salazar makes that apparent enough. And the more fool you, if you think he's come here merely for nullifying lessons. I would be astonished to learn that _anything_ he has told us thus far is truth. Do you think he would hesitate to lie about being your son?"

Wondering what exactly I'd done to Ravenclaw to warrant such distrust, I held my breath as the silence stretched for what felt like an eternity but was probably only a few seconds.

"He didn't."

I blinked and had to remember to exhale.

"Salazar—"

"When I asked him, he was very reluctant to speak. If he truly is this liar you would have him be, shouldn't he have been ready with a quick lie?"

"I'm certain even the best liars are capable of feeling a twinge of guilt now and then."

I winced. Lady Rowena was the only person here who realised what I was. And Salazar refused to believe her, was _defending_ me, in fact. It was ironic enough that I should feel like laughing. But I didn't. I wasn't sure if it was curiosity or a desire for self-punishment or both that compelled me to keep listening.

"Very well, if you won't trust my instincts, then trust my father's. He is far more experienced than either of us."

"Your father! What proof does he offer? Soul gazing...!" She blew out a sigh of disgust—reminding me suddenly of McGonagall deriding the "art" of Divination—before continuing in a calm, reasonable tone. "The reading of auras is an imprecise branch of magic, Salazar. Nearly as inaccurate as Divination. There are those who have the talent, and those who merely _think_ they do."

Her unspoken question hung in the air: which is your father?

"_That's_ what you doubt? He's never erred in his readings before."

"Salazar—" Rowena sounded exasperated. "Fine. Then let's accept for a moment that he _is_ your son. He grew up without his father. Why?"

"This war—"

Rowena Ravenclaw gave an unladylike snort of disbelief.

"Is it so hard to believe that I will indeed die someday?"

"You? Unlikely." Her voice was light, but there was a frustrated tightness in it. "Salazar, you claim you're not blind. Then why do you refuse to see the obvious answer? You want so badly to see Illaria again that you won't accept any other scenario than that you're..." —her words took on such heavy irony, I was surprised I didn't hear them hit the stone floor with loud clunks as they left her mouth— "reunited with your lost love years from now, sire a son, and die. And then, on a whim, your son comes back to meet you."

Slytherin must have been about to interrupt, because she raised her voice. "It's a neat, pretty end to a dark story, I'll grant you that, but I can think of a thousand more plausible explanations for what your son would be doing here now. Would you like to hear them?"

Well, _I_ would.

When Salazar spoke, his voice was chill. "Have I any choice?"

"Oh, stop sulking. If you didn't terrify everyone with your asinine 'I am Salazar Slytherin and I can raise my eyebrow threateningly, so tremble, mortals' glare of impending doom, you might be surprised how many people disagree with you!"

I tried to picture Salazar's face by now and failed. Rowena took a deep breath and wisely cut down on the insult-slinging. "When Illaria disappeared, you suspected Morass was responsible. I think he was. She might have already been with child when he kidnapped her. He probably desired some leverage when you refused his offer that night."

"Nonsense. He disapproved of her and wanted our relationship to end." Salazar sounded bitter. "On that matter, at least, I refused to budge."

"Maybe this was his way of ensuring that it _would_ end."

"No. Morass was more the kind to permanently remove irritants."

"Perhaps," Ravenclaw allowed. "Or maybe, when you refused, he decided that your love for her was convenient after all. But won't you agree that she wouldn't have left under her own free will?"

Slytherin didn't answer for a long time. "I don't know. I'm not certain."

"You don't _know_? Salazar, you were going to marry her!"

"We...had some disagreements," he admitted haltingly. "I might have been a bit...vehement, during some."

"Oh, Salazar." Now Rowena sounded distinctly pitying. It grated on my nerves. "It wasn't your fault. You know that Morass—oh! We're being distracted from the main point: the only person with the power to make her vanish and render you unable to detect her would be another nullifier. And who else would that be but Morass? Whatever his reasons, it would be this man who raised your son." Slytherin's expression must have been discouraging, because she took on a defensive tone. "He is _trained_ against the effects of Veritaserum: doesn't this strike you as the least bit suspicious?"

Salazar didn't hesitate in replying this time, but his voice was flat, devoid of any of his prior pent-up fury. "All potions, not just Veritaserum. It is simply another application of nullification. And he taught me how to do the same, which, to me, does not reconcile with the actions an enemy or spy would take. An enemy would hoard his secrets, not share them. And Harry was very clearly not taking the situation seriously. Shouldn't he have pretended to be under its influence and given answers that sounded truthful?"

This must be the first time being insolent had actually worked in my favour.

"Fine, but there are many other instan—"

"I am not finished. You have had your say; now grant me mine. The first time I met him, I was slightly...threatening. He panicked and tried to flee. We happened upon him just in time to prevent Morass from capturing him."

"Easily staged to gain our trust—"

"Rowena." He delivered her name like an order for silence. "He clearly knows very little of disciplined nullifying, which I assure you wouldn't be the case had Morass raised him. His lessons may be poison, but he's very effective at teaching them. Harry wouldn't have such gaping holes in his knowledge."

"He managed to slip away from three of us with no trouble," Rowefna said, "held off Morass long enough for us to rescue him, has even earned the frightened respect of _both_ the Gryffindors and Slytherins, nullified an impossible number of student-brewed potions—"

"Rowena—"

"—overcame Godric," she continued, growing more vehement, "whose battle reflexes are ridiculously quick as you well know, defeated the two very capable sentries your father assigned to the school, and was able to nullify your Termakhen curse. Most of this, I understand, while half sick from too much nullifying!"

"And what of it?" Salazar sounded tired.

"What kind of person can do these things while hardly more than a child?"

Someone who hadn't been a child for a very long time, I answered silently. Someone who grew up dodging blows from his "family," and progressed to evading attempts on his life throughout his school days. Who had one purpose: to defeat a wizard who couldn't be killed.

"We weren't much older when we founded this school." Salazar sighed, noticeably tiring of the argument. "Do you believe he's my son or not? Your opinion shifts more than sand! First I'm a fool to believe he is, then you concede that it's possible but that I'm a fool for dwelling on the past, and now I'm correct but a fool for believing his intentions to be good."

"I just don't trust him," Rowena said finally. "Maybe he's not lying about being your son. Maybe he is. The point is, he's lying about _something_, and we can't afford to trust him!"

"I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust my father, and trust my instincts."

"Hah! Fine." I could picture her throwing her hands up in the air in that hopeless, dear-Merlin-you're-an-idiot Hermionesque manner. "You refuse to listen to reason. On your own head be it, and hope that it isn't ours, as well. But before you go, think on one thing, if you will: the curse you used, the Termakhen. You knew what that curse would have done to this friend of his, Lupin. It would have meant instant death, and still you cast it, on the mere suspicion of a threat. Love, Salazar? Obsession? How is it natural that you would kill to protect him—a young wizard you have known for little more than three days?"

Overwhelmed by an onslaught of sudden emotion—fear, shame, longing—I fled, stepping as lightly as I could, but no slower for that. I was so shaken that I found myself almost to the Gryffindor Tower before I switched direction. Wary Gryffindors gave me wide berth in the hall. A hex came at me from seemingly nowhere, and I nullified it without a glance, not slowing at all, though my head twinged.

Lady Hufflepuff's plea haunted me now, a refrain I couldn't get out of my head: _Please, don't hurt him._

I had never felt such self-loathing. Those lies, which had seemed so little and harmless before, took on a different light altogether. The knowledge that I would have to perpetuate this charade sickened me. The man had once loved a woman very much, and was latching onto anything that might have been hers: me. But she was gone; there was no child. Just a package of self-serving lies.

I thought I might be sick if I stayed in the castle any longer. The very air seemed to press in on me. I wandered along the familiar and unfamiliar halls until I stumbled upon a sunlit garden that I knew hadn't existed in my Hogwarts.

It was very green, with violent spurts of bright colour interspersed throughout where some patch of flowers or another drew the eye. There were many trees and a very large oak anchored in the middle of the garden. An unprepossessing bench lay partially in its shade, and I settled into it gratefully.

I closed my eyes and felt some of the aching ease out of my body. Trying hard not to think about anything I had just overheard or thought, I listened to the quiet sounds of plant life and let it lull me into a state halfway between sleep and waking.

The sound of footsteps was jarring enough against the stillness to return me to wakefulness. I jerked to a sitting position only half voluntarily, my familiar instinct for self preservation forcing me to classify any unknown as potentially hostile. They drew closer, with the slightly hollow echo of boots on stone.

Hm, bushes? I quickly located one large enough and crouched behind it, so that those passing by the entrance to the gardens wouldn't see me. Another sound drifted towards me: voices. I strained to listen. Again.

"...we act? The Slytherins are so unbearably intolerant! How long will we have to stand their sneers and slurs before we get to _do something_?" It was a girl speaking, younger. Probably a student.

Though I'd already done more than my share of eavesdropping for the day, I couldn't reign in my curiosity. It provided a distraction, in any case.

"Shhh!" another voice, male, hissed from about the same direction. They must have stopped, which was fine, as long as they didn't suddenly fancy a stroll through the gardens. "This isn't the place to discuss it. You think they don't expect sabotage from our quarter?"

Ah, sabotage. This settles it, for all those still doubting: _I_ don't seek trouble and intrigue, _it_ seeks _me_. I go for a perfectly innocent walk in the gardens and find myself knee deep in some new plot.

"Gryffindor doesn't. Are you sure he wouldn't...?" She sounded wistful.

"No," the other—also a student by the sound of it—replied disgustedly. "Don't be simple. He's close enough to Slytherin that you may as well call them brothers. In fact, they _are_ kin. Cousins."

Slytherin and Gryffindor. And some would-be saboteurs. For Morass? Independent? Given the tension I'd noticed between the two Houses and the severe antipathy the Slytherins had for those not of "pure" bloodlines, either was plausible.

"Any of the other professors?" The voice had jumped closer to me.

I risked a glance and settled back into my crouch with a quiet sigh. They had entered the gardens. Of course.

"Halcourt, perhaps. Slytherin snubs him every chance he gets, and he isn't much older than us."

"What about the new one? The Potions professor?"

I perked up. Yet more gossip about me? When you listen in on two conversations about yourself in one day, you start to wonder how many you _haven't_ overheard.

"Evans? Another younger one. I don't know..."

"He's related to Slytherin, I know it. His brother's son, do you think?"

Salazar had a brother? Oh, right, the mirror had mentioned a nephew, Gregor, so it followed that he had at least one sibling. I really needed to have a long chat about family history sometime with Lady Slytherin's portrait. Why someone hadn't already called me out on my lack of knowledge about my supposed family was beyond me. I attributed it to an unhealthy abundance of luck that would no doubt desert me the instant I truly needed it, and the tendency of the universe to torture me in as many unexpected ways as possible.

The male speaker laughed derisively. "Then why isn't he called Slytherin as well? No. And I know of no 'Evans' family, so he couldn't be a bastard, either. That family would die before 'polluting' their bloodlines with Muggle blood."

"I suppose you're right. He could be kin to Gryffindor, for all that we know. But the resemblance! It's really eerie. He passed me in the halls just a bit ago, and gave me this cool look, like he was evaluating how much of a threat I was, or how much effort it would take to...to _dispose_ of me, if I turned out to be one."

What a fine double layer of secrets we had going, I thought with a tired sort of amusement. The founders were trying to hide my relation to Salazar while I desperately tried to keep them from finding out that there _was_ no relation, just a great number of coincidences. Though even I couldn't explain the resemblance, except that since I looked a good deal like my real father, James Potter, he must have been related to Slytherin.

"I don't think it matters. Whomever he might call family, there is no love lost between the professor and Slytherin. Jethril Lambard said that the Slytherins behaved abominably to him, and Salazar Slytherin himself not much better."

The girl laughed. "I heard that he stormed into the Potions dungeon after the Slytherins left and began shouting at him."

"No, that was after our class. Probably warning Evans not to treat them so shoddily."

"He was kind enough to Greenvale. And we _were_ very loud. We deserved most of it."

"I hear he made the Slytherins actually _drink_ their potions," the boy said with a wicked kind of glee.

I wondered what other crazy rumours were currently circulating among the students about my classes, teaching methods, and relation (or lack thereof) to Salazar. Then, recalling how out of hand rumours would become during my time at Hogwarts, I decided I probably didn't want to know.

I gave a sudden twitch as a muscle cramped. I exhaled a subvocal stream of invective as a twig cracked beneath my shifting feet. The students froze...right in front of my bushes.

"W-what was that?" the girl asked shakily, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow.

"Sh! Hello? Who's out there?" I could hear the boy sliding his wand out of his robes.

Desperately wishing for my old invisibility cloak, or the ability to turn into the animal my hair probably resembled, I remained as still as possible. I reached for their thoughts with Legilimency, and projected, over and over: _nothing is here, there's nothing to worry about. Keep walking. _For one breathless moment, no one moved.

"It was nothing, just an animal, probably," the boy said finally, and began walking again, his arm draped round the girl's waist.

I frowned, puzzled. Was Legilimency supposed to work like that? I thought not—it was more for delving for memories and feelings than anything else. I didn't think it was meant to be used as a kind of empathy or telepathy. Then again, by this point, I was well beyond being surprised by _any_ strange ability I found out I possessed. Every extra 'power the Dark Lord knows not' I had extended my life expectancy a few more years.

Dismissing the incident uneasily, I took a moment to study the two students' faces. Both were indeed from my seventh year Gryffindor Potions class. The boy had lean features, with medium length brown hair tied back loosely. Average height. The girl was pretty in a Medieval way: big eyes, a long nose, slightly plump. Her hair was a dark brown.

I would have to look up their names next class and keep a watchful eye on both. And the people they interacted with.

When they finally left the gardens, I waited in my shrub for a minute to be certain they were truly gone, well aware that any assumptions on my part would probably only end in grief. But before I could rise, Godric Gryffindor entered quietly, his shoulders slumped and expression uncharacteristically grim. He held something clutched in one hand. Resolved to no longer remain in this extremely uncomfortable position (my muscles, nowhere near recovered, were burning), I straightened.

Gryffindor looked startled for a moment when, ghostlike, I appeared out of the greenery, and he quickly stuffed whatever was in his hand into a pocket. His gaze travelled from my feet up to my head, and he began laughing. It sounded half-hysterical, and I had to help him onto the bench before he collapsed.

"Are you drunk?" I asked after his laughter had subsided; certainly I didn't look _that_ awful! I winced as I pulled a leaf out of my hair.

He looked ready to start up again, but held it in. "Drunk? I dearly wish I were."

"Okay," I said slowly. "Something wrong?"

He winced. "Something? _Some_ thing? Merlin, as though there were only one! I don't know where to begin."

"Um. Wherever it makes the most sense." Because he certainly wasn't right now, I thought, firmly reigning in the impulse to back away slowly.

"Then we'll start with you! Why not?" He scrutinised me for a moment. "Harder than I thought, actually. I don't know what to think about you, don't know if you're a danger or a blessing or maybe something entirely different. I'm inclined to think that you might be real, because you're being rather like Salazar right now, but it changes with the moment."

"That's me," I agreed. "Mercurial to a fault. You should see me mornings."

That drew a wry smile from him, though it was a very wan one. "I have. In the midst of one of your spats with Salazar, no less, which probably did not help matters much." He sighed, and sobered again. "You managed to stun me yesterday. I'm not sure if I should hit you for that, or congratulate you. You've accomplished what no one's been able to in years."

"That seems to be my curse," I muttered.

Gryffindor regarded me for long, silent moment. "I think I can believe that."

Uncomfortable, I shrugged and gestured for him to continue.

"As a result, I found myself on the receiving end of one of Salazar's more venomous tongue lashings. Shockingly enough, I emerged relatively unscathed. Still," he grimaced, "Salazar refused to speak with me hours afterwards. And now he and Rowena are having a row of their own. He refuses to speak with her, too. And he won't tell Helga what's wrong, so, as usual, we're left to play another round of 'Guess What's Wrong With Salazar Today.'"

I raised an eyebrow. "You play that often?"

He eyed me incredulously. "Surely you jest. Every other week! Once he works himself into one of his sulks, it's nearly impossible to drag him out. Usually it is far safer to wait it out, and bear the inevitable sharp words with good grace. Well, good grace if you're Helga, and approximations of varying accuracy for the rest of us."

"You do seem to fight a good deal," I ventured, hoping that Gryffindor wouldn't mistake that for criticism.

"Yes, well, that's what friends do, I suppose," he sighed. "Perhaps more so, when you are as close as we four are."

"Close?" I repeated sceptically. "You and Salazar are always insulting one another."

"And he excels at it," Gryffindor said with a smile thaft I got the feeling would probably be a grin had he not been under this strange, sombre shadow. "Though we do tend towards the overly theatrical, I will freely admit."

Remembering Gryffindor hiding in his room when I'd glared at him the other day, I didn't doubt that. "How old are you, now?"

"Never too old for that."

"Huh," I said. "He told me that I should show you some respect...was it yesterday?" It was vexing that I'd fallen unconscious often enough that I couldn't even think chronologically. "That one morning."

Gryffindor's eyebrows jumped nearly to his hairline. "Did he? Odd. He mustn't have realised that I was being my usual dramatic self then. Or perhaps he was...oh," he said, covering his mouth with one hand in an unsuccessful bid to hide his sudden mirth. "Oh, Salazar. And you call me the fool."

"What?" I asked curiously.

"Nothing," he said, all evidence to the contrary.

"Tell me," I insisted.

"I think we've been through this conversation before, and since you stupefied me last time when I conceded and told you," he said with a hint of reproach, "I am not very inclined to say anything now, you understand."

"Then tell me what's bothering you," I said, sensing that now was the time to push.

He was silent a long while as all his good cheer visibly drained from him and his eyes darkened with some unreadable emotion. His smile remained on his face, however, like an ill-fitting mask. I stared at him grimly, refusing to be fooled, and his smiled dropped away as well. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and studied an invisible point somewhere in the distance.

"It's ironic, really. I complain about Salazar's little tantrums, and I left the family manor with the specific intent to get away from all such hopeless little melodramas." His expression grew wistful and he laughed bitterly. "So much lost time that I can never recover. Strange, how much you end up missing the things you thought you hated."

"Godric," I prompted cautiously, "what's wrong?"

"You just can't leave me alone, can you? Slytherins." He took a wrinkled bit of parchment out of his pocket and waved it wearily at me. "This. This is what's wrong."

I tried to take the parchment from him, but he quickly moved it out of reach, shaking his head.

"I suppose it was only a matter of time," he continued, "before Morass would smarten up and attack the people he actually _can_ get to. Though this was especially clever of him. I'll grant the bastard that."

As he thought aloud, I snatched the parchment out of his hand and skimmed over it. It was a letter. After the first few disturbing lines, I skipped to the bottom and confirmed my suspicion. It was from Morass. I read the whole thing through carefully, absently evading Gryffindor's attempts to grab it back. When I finished, I folded it back up neatly, making a vain try at smoothing out the crinkles, and returned it to Gryffindor. My hands did not shake at all, I noted with some surprise. The letter's contents had certainly been terrible and graphic enough.

"What are you going to do?" I asked. I almost regretted prying now.

"What am I...? What else can I do?" The letter crumpled in his hands. "If he wants me to be there, I'll be there. What other choice do I have?"

"You seem to be taking this rather...well," I said, thinking that "well" probably wasn't the right word for it. He seemed more in denial than anything.

"What? That he's killed my brother and his wife and has my sister as a hostage?" he asked, his voice trembling slightly—with anger or grief, I couldn't tell. "I will do as he says, but I will _not_ let my...feelings get the better of me. It's not as though I can discuss it with anyone. You've read it what he threatens if I do. If anyone else suspected...fortunately Salazar and Rowena are too distracted with one another—and you—to notice that something is amiss with me and start probing. I've been avoiding Helga all day. It's just my ill luck that I ran into you."

His face was utterly blank, but it was only another mask that couldn't fool me, who used them so well. "You're still trying to convince yourself that it's not true, that they'll be coming back." I shook my head. "Stop. You can put off the emotion till later, but that will only make it worse when you do try to deal with it. Trust me," I said, my voice roughening. "Better to face it now. They're gone, Godric. And your sister will be as well if you don't accept that."

"What do you know of death?" he demanded.

"More than you ever want to," I stated bitterly. "They're dead."

"I KNOW THAT!" Gryffindor shouted.

"Say it," I said mercilessly.

"They're dead," he whispered. Then he slumped, and if he hadn't been sitting on the bench, I think he might have collapsed. I steadied him, though I felt almost as poorly myself, and looked him over. However I might feel, he looked infinitely worse. I could read his face now, and it was full of anguish.

"Marcus and Lavina. Dead. And Cassandra, little Cassie. Oh, gods..." He closed his eyes tightly. "She must be terrified. That monster."

I could find nothing comforting to say in the face of his grief and even if I had, knew better than to try. "How long have you known?"

He stared at the letter with undisguised hatred. "This morning. I thought to contact my father, but...the letter was very explicit. I—" He looked at me with a sick realisation. "You've read it. How did I not—?"

"Don't be ridiculous," I said. "You have to tell Salazar. We can find some way to rescue her."

He stared at me like I was mad. "It doesn't work that way."

I stared back at him. Rescues were what Gryffindors _did_. "What do you mean? I know what he threatened if we tried, but he's not omniscient!"

"You don't understand." Gryffindor took a shaky breath and grasped one end of the bench as if for support. "We tried that once, when the same thing happened to a friend of my father. His two children were taken by Morass to secure his neutrality or perhaps his cooperation. Uncle Warin tried to get them back, but Morass found out. How, we never discovered."

With a sinking feeling in my stomach, I thought I could guess where this story was headed.

"He killed them, but death alone wasn't enough to satisfy him. He tortured them first. Hours, from what we could glean from their...bodies. Little children." His voice came out strangled. "Cassandra is my youngest sister. She's but twenty-two years of age." He seemed to actually look me then. "Twenty-two. Right about your age. Merlin."

"We'll get her back." But the words sounded trite and empty to me, and now I understood how Sirius must have felt trying to reassure me last Christmas, when Ginny had gone missing.

Gryffindor continued as if he hadn't heard me. "He sent their bodies back to the father, along with a small phial filled with a dark green liquid. There was no label, but it was easy enough to guess what it was. And after the children were buried, he—we found him the next day."

I shook my head as though that would rid me of the vivid images Gryffindor's story painted in my mind; they were all too easy to picture, when a person had witnessed as many horrors throughout his life as I had. Here was another nightmare to add to my gruesome collection. They didn't get any easier to hear. Or see. Or experience.

"Morass always keeps his word. Always. He takes a perverse pride in that reputation. If I come like the note says, he'll release my sister. But you've read it." His lips firmed in a narrow line of suppressed fury. "You've read what he'll do to her if I don't. And I know what he'll do after that. He'll go after my next relative, or the next, until..."

There was a large _crack!_ as the tree nearest us split in two, smoke rising from the charred split. Gryffindor glared at the tree with searing hatred, and I didn't doubt that he was imposing Morass' figure over the blackened bark of the dead tree. Very strong wandless magic, I noted shakily. I knew that I had caused similar acts of random destruction with my anger, but was truly disquieting to experience it as the observer.

"What do you think he wants?" I asked bracing for another explosion. Just in case.

"What do you think?" Gryffindor retorted, but his anger seemed to have abated somewhat. "Another hostage. He knows perfectly well that nothing less would move Salazar to make the trade I am going to make. Not his brother; they were never close. Not even his father, whom I doubt Morass could ever capture anyway. No, his cousin. His closest friend."

I knew the stories in the history books. But I was _living_ that history, and it grew increasingly apparent that Slytherin and Gryffindor were not the enemies historians painted them to be. I'd never imagined their friendship was so close. An echo of the Sorting Hat's words rose out of the depths of memory to play ghostly through my mind: "...were there such friends anywhere as Slytherin and Gryffindor?" The rest of the song I had forgotten long ago, but those words had stayed with me, so odd had they sounded then.

When did it all start to go wrong? And why? It couldn't have just been differences over who should be taught. Could a friendship crumple under so trivial an issue? They were supposed to part the bitterest of enemies.

"...he knows I won't tell Salazar," Gryffindor was saying; I abandoned my speculations to pay attention. "Because he would try and stop me. And I can't afford that."

"You can't mean you're just going to turn yourself over?" I said incredulously.

"Were you not listening?" he demanded. "I have no choice! Would you do otherwise, were our positions reversed?"

I thought about Hermione, and was suddenly less sure of myself. What if Voldemort ever offered the same trade? Her for me? Ron for me? Then I remembered Ginny's abduction and how I'd been half ready to make some wild attempt at rescue or negotiation despite my distaste for playing the hero, though neither could have ended well for me. Or the wizarding world. "I...I don't know."

"You can't tell him." It was a cross between an order and a desperate plea.

I rubbed my face and thought furiously. Logic first. If Morass did get Godric, Salazar would make the exchange. Gryffindor's own affection for Salazar had been very plain earlier, and now that I actually thought about it, I could see that the light-hearted bickering and clever sniping bantered back and forth between the two was borne of a sibling-like closeness. Like the twins needling Ron. Or Ginny relentlessly teasing Ron about everything from his passion for Quidditch to his choice of girlfriends.

I knew what enmity was—me and Malfoy. Vitriolic insults full of hate. I hadn't once detected any underlying hatred in their flung insults.

Salazar would do it. And I couldn't let that happen. I would be the only nullifier left by then. If I kept Gryffindor's secret, it could mean defeat for Hogwarts.

But Gryffindor's desperation pulled at me. If it were me...I'd consign logic to the blackest depths of hell and do exactly what Gryffindor planned to do. Because if forced to choose between the good of the whole, and the good of my family, I knew what I'd pick. Call it selfishness, but I would sacrifice myself to save Ron or Hermione or Sirius or Remus, even fully aware that doing so would doom the rest of the world to be crushed beneath Voldemort's boot.

I'd grown up alone and unloved. I knew those feelings far too well for me to ever risk enduring them again. Friendship was something I valued above everything else. It trumped social responsibility.

_Then why are you running from them? Why did you let Ron go without even trying to understand his problems or attempting to visit? Why do you always wait for Hermione to initiate things? Left to you, that friendship would have dried up. Sirius, Remus, Ginny, Tonks. Friends, almost-family who stubbornly held on to you when you were at your worst. Refusing to be pushed away. And you left them behind, discarded like those years of friendship meant nothing._

_And despite being abandoned, they refused to let go. They followed you back._

I didn't deserve them, I thought guiltily. Sure, I valued friendship. Valued it so much that I threw it away at the prospect of running away from Voldemort and his war. And listen to me! "His" war. Not my war, though it was as much mine as his. Or so the prophecy said.

I tried to imagine losing one of them. I couldn't, I found to my surprise. I couldn't fathom never again hearing Hermione's sharp remonstrations to take better care of myself, or making Ginny laugh, or sitting down to supper with Sirius and Remus. Or wild nights spent pubbing with Tonks.

I'd thought of this trip to the past as a short respite: pick up a few useful skills perhaps, and then I'd be back with my friends, trying my best to keep myself out of the war and dodging death. Only now did I realise how selfish that had been. If I never came back, I was as good as dead to them. I hadn't once considered that they would miss me. I couldn't understand how, but I knew that they would.

All it took was Gryffindor losing half his family to put it in perspective. Bloody fantastic friend I was. Sure to be nominated for all sorts of awards—Number One Sod, Most Self-Absorbed Twit, King of Self-Pity...

And if it were family at risk...? I'd never had a family to risk, but it could only be worse than losing a friend. If I interfered, I would be killing his sister in all but name. And what a choice Gryffindor was forced to make! He could save his sister, or his best friend. But not both. He was well and truly buggered either way.

It didn't make it any easier that Gryffindor's intense gaze never once left me in my musings.

"No," I said finally. "I won't tell him."

Gryffindor visibly melted with relief. "Thank you."

Then, inspiration struck me hard enough to make me dizzy. "On one condition: I go with you."

"_What?_" Gryffindor objected immediately. "Out of the question. One hostage is enough, without giving Morass one of our remaining nullifiers! For that matter, why don't we simply offer you and Salazar to him on a golden tray? And if anything happened to you—I don't even want to imagine what Salazar would do!"

Why should he care? I thought bitterly. He hardly knew me. And what he did know was a lie. I felt a tightness in my throat that made it hard to speak.

"No, he'll be fine." No one would be hurt but me, and I more than deserved it this time. Besides, I had far more experienced than either Salazar or Godric in escaping impossible situations.

"What are you saying? You have been here for all of three days and he speaks of nothing but you!"

I closed my eyes, overwhelmed by a wave of bitterness, wishing for a moment, one traitorous moment, that Salazar really _was_ my father, and I could know the unconditional love of a parent as more than a memory.

"You can't do this, Harry. It's mad!"

"This is one madness you'll tolerate unless you want me to go to Salazar right now." Godric fingered his wand subtly, but I glared at him. "Don't even think about using a memory charm."

His fingers went white about his wand. "You can't."

"You think it's easy to let _you_ do this?" I retorted. "I'm coming with you."

"Folly," Gryffindor muttered. But now that he had decided upon a course, he seemed steadier. That Gryffindor hardiness; I knew it well. "Harry, why?"

"I can't tell you." Already I dreaded what I would have to do. Merlin, where was my sense of self-preservation now? "Swear that you will take me along."

"I...very well, I swear," he said very reluctantly. "But you may change your mind at any point."

I tried to remember the details of the planned exchange of hostages. "When is it?"

"Three days hence, night, ten o'clock."

So late? That troubled me. "Why would he wait until then?"

"I don't know. Do you think he has something planned?" He looked alarmed. "Whatever happens, you must not do anything to jeopardise my sister's life."

"I won't, I promise," I said without hesitation. The only person I planned to put in the way of harm was myself.

He leaned back into the bench as if he would have liked to melt into it entirely and escape everything. Sympathetic but uncertain how to express it, I stayed sat beside him, the two of us staring off at nothing in particular but seeing a murky future.

The irony was not lost on me.


	10. Confessions

Author: Aedalena  
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic. __  
_Thanks to: Japonica, for kindly Brit-picking the previous chapters and this chapter.  
**This chapter:** Long talks, confessions, self-doubt, dark magic, Death Eaters, suspicions, prophecies, the mechanics of nullifying, nosy professors, and much more, in no particular order. Did I mention long talks?

**NULLIFIER  
**Chapter Nine: Confessions

"_To shun one's cross is to make it heavier." __--Henri__ Frederic Amiel_

Compared to my tumultuous morning, the afternoon was rather anticlimactic. I finally showered, after several portraits had offered their unwelcome opinions regarding my dishevelled appearance. I thought myself a paragon of restraint and virtue for not blasting the lot of them into satisfyingly tiny pieces. Adelaide was delighted to see me again, but I barely spoke, brooding instead on the sorry state of my life. The mirror didn't seem to mind doing the brunt of the talking, fortunately. I shaved, and pulled half my hair back before changing robes again. The last set was stained from my garden adventure. I was hard on robes.

Then it was back to class, which wasn't nearly as fun now with the hostage exchange looming over my head. I couldn't even indulge in any harmless torture of unwitting students now that nullifying anything had become only marginally more pleasant than drinking acid.

But perhaps there was something to Remus' method of teaching. The Hufflepuff lesson went so well that I felt certain that the Ravenclaws would balance the scales with nightmarish disobedience. My luck held for once, however, and they listened attentively the whole class. No doubt uncertain which rumours to believe, unwilling to risk that I _wasn't_ the villain I was painted to be. I supposed it didn't hurt that I held back some with the sarcastic insults.

I wondered what everyone would think of my teaching style once they compared notes: rotten to the Gryffindors, worse to the Slytherins, mild and pleasant to the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws. They'd probably decide I was either shamelessly biased or a victim of demonic possession.

Well, whatever the reason for their good behaviour, I couldn't help feeling relief that I would have some kind of respite from the hostility of my Gryffindor and Slytherin classes. This way wasn't as fun, but the students produced rather decent potions overall so I couldn't complain. Instead of having every colour represented on my desk, the healing tonics were mostly varying shades of the desired indigo colour.

This time, I graded them the way I supposed Snape did, though without the skill experience brings: I eyeballed them, marking down for variances in colour, texture, and viscosity. I didn't have to yell once. I didn't have to nullify anything. It was boring, but for once, I was grateful for that. Even I needed a break from chaos every so often.

I finished the second lesson with an essay assignment on topical healing potions, which made me feel very professorly again. I doubted I would ever become used to it. There was something decidedly strange in the thought that this time, I would be the one _making_ the marks in red ink instead of reading them. I might even need to consult a few books myself; I was a bit shaky on healing potions. Snape had blitzed through them, and most had to be brewed in a silver cauldron, so I hadn't made many with Remus either.

Remus. He could help me figure out this professor business, I thought wistfully. For the thousandth time that afternoon, I wished I could check the Chamber for him and Sirius. Unfortunately, Potions had tied up most of the day, and my morning had been...eventful. Which left tonight.

As I transferred the last of the grades into the gradebook, there was a light knock at the door. I finished the grade I was writing and looked up, expecting a student with a question. It was Salazar, looking grim. Well, grimmer than usual. I felt a flare of momentary panic. _I can't do this_, I thought. Then, irrationally: _Why does this always happen to me after lessons? Is there a sign above the door? 'Harry hasn't met his unhappiness quota for the day; disturbing revelations or uncomfortable conversations welcome.'_

I took a fortifying breath, steeling myself for what would probably be another draining encounter. In less than four days, the lies would end. Surely I could last until then.

"Good afternoon," I said, surprised at how unperturbed I sounded.

He just looked at me, his eyes intense with some emotion that I couldn't identify. "Why do you need protectors?" he asked bluntly.

Well, he certainly wasn't one to dance around an issue. I put my quill down and leaned back in my chair. "The same reason you do."

He stepped into the room, closing the door behind him. "Morass still lives?"

"No." I couldn't withhold a sigh. "A different dark wizard."

He didn't sit down or frown, though I got the feeling he wanted to. "Another one. And why is this one after you?"

Because that cow Trelawney couldn't keep her bloody mouth shut. "I suppose I must have offended a vindictive deity in a previous life."

Slytherin's fist clenched by his side. "Without the flippancy."

Oh. He'd been my stalwart defender, but his conversation with Ravenclaw must have shaken his faith in me a little. I didn't say anything for a while, trying to decide how much I should tell Salazar, and what I needed to lie about. He must have seen something shifty or uncomfortable in my face, because his expression darkened, and he closed the distance between us until only the desk separated us.

"No lies," he said with a dangerous quiet.

I stared at him helplessly for a moment, wondering if my charade might not collapse about me _before_ my four days were up. _It's your web. You tangled it, you untangle it. Before it unravels about you._

"I'm under a prophecy," I said finally. "'Neither can live while the other survives.'" Salazar raised an eyebrow. "I know, now what the blazes is _that_ supposed to mean? We're both alive, I _think_. I don't know what 'survive' is supposed to mean either."

"Perhaps if you recited the whole text?" he suggested, still watching me intently for any dishonesty.

"'Either must die at the hand of the other, for neither can live while the other survives,'" I intoned, omitting the unnecessary and potentially incriminating first half. "That help at all?"

Slytherin pondered that. I found that at one point I had picked up my quill again and was twirling it. I forced myself to stop fidgeting.

"Either must...for. An imperative, followed by an explanation. But the explanation makes no sense," he mused. "Warning or impetus? Does your enemy know the prophecy?"

It took me a second to realise that his last question was directed at me. I nodded, and started spelling the students' phials clean to give my nervous energy an outlet. Why I was so nervous, I had no idea. He was distracted now, right? "He has for about seven years now."

My pathetic—ah, let's not be too free with praise here—my _non-existent_ Occlumency skills had not been nearly enough to keep Voldemort from snatching the prophecy from my mind once Dumbledore had grudgingly shared it with me. It was only afterwards that I'd realised it might be beneficial to my continued existence to learn as much as I could about the mind magics. A bit late, by then. Always a bit too late.

"Has he tried to kill you since then?"

"Hm." I paused in my wandwork to sift through my memories of encounters with him. I frowned, puzzled. "That's odd. He hasn't, really. I mean, I can recall at least two opportunities that he could have killed me but didn't."

Slytherin's eyes flashed with a silent "ah ha!" "He must be uncertain of the meaning as well."

"Oh, I see." I turned his statement over in my mind, looking for some insight in it. "Okay, no I don't. Why is that so important?"

"The structure of the sentence, as in most prophecies, is meant to confuse," he explained. "Focus on what it tells you. You can be killed only by your enemy, and your enemy can only be killed by you. At least, until the prophecy is fulfilled. That is clear enough. But then it spouts some cryptic nonsense about you being unable to live while he does."

I shrugged and _scourgefied_ the last bottle. "So it's confusing. I didn't need you to tell me that. So what? That doesn't tell me anything I haven't already figured out myself."

Salazar ignored me, his focus internal as he thought. "Neither you nor your enemy understand it because you are thinking too hard about what it means when you should be asking _why_. Why is it there? Why add this second part? It should be enough to know that only you and he can kill one another."

"You called it an impetus. Or a warning."

"Yes," he agreed absently. "An impetus to impart a sense of urgency. Or a warning to give information necessary to defeat each other. What does the first half do on its own?"

I thought about it as I opened a drawer in the desk to put away the samples I had saved of the best potions. "All it tells me is that he's the only person who can kill me. I agree, the second part is pretty pointless."

"Not entirely. It would not have been included unless it had some meaning."

"There are just too many ways you can interpret it," I said, shaking my head. "You wouldn't know until afterwards just what it meant. It's maddening."

"That appears to be the defining characteristic of a prophecy."

"I don't know...I don't see how it would make sense for it to be an impetus. If the prophecy is going to be fulfilled no matter what, why should it matter _when_ it happens? It shouldn't need any prodding. Unless the point of the second part is to ensure it's fulfilled?" I grimaced. "This is confusing."

"You have a point," he said after a moment. "Perhaps it _is_ a warning."

"Let's assume it is. A warning for which of us? About what? What do you think?"

"'Neither can live...' It depends on whether 'live' is meant figuratively or literally. Or perhaps both. And on what you define as living." He tilted his head slightly in enquiry.

"Well, unless hell is actually a very painful and astonishingly convincing imitation of life with the luck dial permanently stuck on the 'cosmic joke' setting, I'm alive. In the physical sense." I paused, then met his eyes challengingly. "If you'll pardon the flippancy."

He grimaced slightly and muttered something under his breath that I didn't catch. "Ah, and your enemy?"

I had to think about that one. "I'm not really certain. He's been discorporate before. He has a new body now, but he used, I'm told by experts in the field, a rather unpredictable resurrection spell to get it, so I don't know what he qualifies as. I don't even know if he'll bleed if he's cut. No one's ever made it close enough with a knife to see. Not for a lack of trying, either."

Salazar tapped the desk with his fingers, once, twice. Then he shook his head. "Think on it. I know too little to be of much help to you, but perhaps something will happen to make clear the warning."

"Do you think so?" I asked, trying not to sound too doubtful.

"Inevitably."

"Well, don't _you_ sound certain." I stared into the deep purple of the potion I was holding. I shook myself and set it down in the drawer. "Are prophecies really set in stone? I mean, if it says he's the only one who can kill me, does that really mean him and only him? Could anything else kill me? I've thought about it before: other attackers, stabbing, drowning...could I burn to death, I wonder? What would happen? Would it just...not work? Or would it burn me until I was at the threshold of death, but never past it?"

I suppose I must have looked overly speculative, because Salazar's voice sounded unusually harsh when he snapped, "No experimenting!"

"Look," I sighed, "maybe I'm a bit impulsive sometimes, but give me some credit. I'm not stupid."

"Agreed. You stepped directly into the path of a Termakhen Curse, which _transcends_ stupidity," he said coldly. "What were you thinking, if so charitable a term may be applied to what was going on in your head at the time?"

"I was _thinking_ that I wasn't about to let you blast my friends into tiny pieces! I have few enough as it is," I snapped, slamming a phial down with unnecessary force. Gritting my teeth, I put the next one down more gently. He had me on the defensive again. "How about we ask what _you_ were thinking, throwing deadly curses round at _suspected_ enemies? Suspected only due to your paranoia, because I vouched for them."

He glared. "We're not discussing my actions--"

"No? And why not?" I countered. "You could have stunned him. You didn't."

"I haven't survived this long by giving people second and third and fourth chances."

I slapped my palm on the desk; the phials rattled dangerously. "How about giving them _one_?"

"He had a _Portkey_. One that came from Morass at one point," Salazar replied calmly, as if this explained everything and I was being unreasonable.

That only made me madder. He was being so...so...blasé about it. 'Yes, I almost murdered two of your friends. I had my reasons. What are you so upset about, then?' I took a deep breath to calm myself. It was ridiculous how easily Salazar was able to provoke. me. One moment I would be wallowing in self-loathing, and the next...

I shelved the introspection for now. Olive branch, damn it. I could be calm and cool-headed and reasonable. "What's so bad about Portkeys? Why does bringing one into Hogwarts warrant a death sentence?"

I found myself on the receiving end of yet another incredulous look. I fought the urge to scowl or sigh. It wasn't my fault I didn't know the answers to what everyone here considered silly questions, and unfortunately, the only way I would ever learn is if I asked. The problem was, each time I asked, everyone revised their estimation of my intelligence, lowering it more with each question. Which started to get irritating after, oh, the twentieth time or so. At this rate, I'd be in the negatives by the end of the week. Assuming I made it that far.

"I've explained to you about Morass and his accident with the Timekey," Salazar said, accepting the peace offering. "It gave him strange abilities."

"Right," I said impatiently. "He can follow 'threads' of magic to different places and is able to sort of 'apparate' to them by travelling along those lines. I know that."

"I am not suggesting you don't. I'm attempting--if you will allow me--to explain. Hogwarts appears as a blank spot in the Portkey patchwork Morass traverses."

"Yes. That's why he can't just teleport in here, you said."

"Correct. However, if a person were to activate a Portkey within Hogwarts, a 'string' would be created between here and the destination--a trail that Morass could then trace. There would be one place in this school that he could locate and subsequently teleport to, rendering the castle's magical defences useless. We have many wards in place that detect objects enchanted as Portkeys. Your friend would not have made it past the gate, had Rowena missed the Timekey in her search."

"Oh," I said. Now that he explained it, his paranoia started to make sense. "But Remus wouldn't have--"

"You don't know that."

"I do," I insisted. "Remus and Sirius would never do anything to hurt me."

"Knowingly, perhaps."

"They--what do you mean?"

"You were unaware of the danger. They might be ignorant as well."

"If you would have just _explained_ this to him, Remus would have voluntarily given you the Portkey," I said, my irritation resurfacing. "How can you hold people responsible for acting out of ignorance when it's your fault for not bothering to explain anything to them?"

"I suppose I should babble the weaknesses of this school to any stranger whom I have reason to distrust," Slytherin sneered.

"By that point, I think I'd already established that you could trust them!"

"Once they are administered Veritaserum, then I shall have reason to trust them. Marginally."

I felt the blood drain from my face. _Veritaserum_? I should have realised sooner, of course, but--it would be disastrous. Not only would it endanger all the secrets I had worked so hard to keep, it also endangered the lives of anyone associated with me, if Salazar discovered the truth. I stood abruptly and began transferring the cleaned phials to the supplies cupboard, to hide my sudden fear. I spoke with my back to Salazar.

"You can't. They're time travellers too. It would be dangerous."

"No," he said firmly. "The greater danger lies in letting close an enemy you have allowed to fool you."

I winced at his statement. Okay, this wasn't working. "You have them in the Chamber," I said softly to throw him off-balance, "don't you."

My statement did more than knock him off-balance, it bowled him over. A shocked silence followed, and when I turned around, I saw that Salazar's face had gone white as my own. "How do you know about the Chamber?"

_That's where I killed your murderous basilisk with your cousin's sword to stop it from killing me first, in order to rescue my best friend's little sister from the preserved sixteen year old essence of my mortal enemy who had regained physical form by draining her spirit through a charmed diary._ Merlin, you knew it was bad when the truth sounded crazy even in your head.

"How do you think?" I said instead, transferring another handful of bottles from my desk to the cupboard.

"No one else knows of it, save myself and your mother," he said distantly. "It was—It is—I never intended to complete it. Nor do I intend to need it. Though I have done many things I never intended."

I turned away again. Bugger. Now he assumed I knew about it from my non-existent mother. Another lie. I didn't even need to try! Just open my mouth, and let people's assumptions do the rest. I was so bloody tired of lying, false assumptions, dissembling. I gritted my teeth against a frustrated shout, but it did no good. The last bottle on my desk exploded in a shower of glittering fragments that miraculously missed both Salazar and me.

"Stop it," I whispered into the stillness that followed. "This isn't what you think it is. Don't you get it? We don't live in a fairy-tale. Life doesn't happen that way. It doesn't come full circle--sometimes loose ends stay loose ends...sometimes you don't _get_ closure."

I thought of my dead, of goodbyes not uttered, of faces disappearing from the Great Hall, never seen again.

"What do you mean?" he asked quietly; he hadn't reacted to my outburst at all except for a tiny flinch when the potion phial shattered.

I came to my senses. This wasn't the time for confessions. Sirius and Remus were imprisoned, I was surrounded by Salazar's allies--his allies, not mine--and Morass still held Gryffindor's sister. I was sickened by my self-perpetuating lies, but it was only four days! I could last till then, _had_ to.

What the hell was my conscience playing at? Why had it chosen to surface now, in this place where I had no obligations? Morass was not my problem, nor was Godric's sister. If I was responsible for anything, it was Voldemort's return.

_You don't belong here_. Simple, plain. So why did I feel the need to help these people I hardly knew? The very people who had locked me up, interrogated me, didn't trust me or trusted me all too much? Who made assumptions that hurt because sometimes I wished they were true as much as they did...

"I don't want to talk about it," I said flatly. "I don't want to talk about prophecies, either, or try and convince you that I'm anyone at all. Think what you want. Or don't."

"Not talking about it has never solved a problem," Salazar replied, spearing me with his discomfiting gaze.

"It's nothing you can help with," I said. In fact, he'd probably murder me. So actually, talking about my problem would indeed solve it, but only because I'd be dead, which was a bit too permanent a solution for my taste.

"Then you will continue to mope and snap at me?"

"Oh, that hurts," I said, burying the last of my regrets. "According to Godric, you aren't speaking to him or Ravenclaw. Either your idea of 'moping' differs drastically from mine, or that's the most ridiculous piece of hypocrisy I've heard today."

For once, Slytherin didn't have a clever reply. I silently awarded myself points for rendering him speechless. Without giving him a chance to recover, I changed the subject. "You still haven't taught me anything about nullifying. I assumed that was your reason for coming here."

He hesitated, and though both of us knew that nullifying had been the last thing on his mind when he'd entered, he nodded. "Clean that glass up, and we'll go to the training room."

The phial was beyond any _reparo_, so I vanished the glass fragments and followed Salazar after locking up the gradebook and then the room. I forwent placing nasty spells on the door this time, noting that they had either fired or been removed before my first class this afternoon. Professor Kessel's doing, most likely. I hoped.

We reached the white-walled room, and Salazar began lecturing on how to dampen my nullifying abilities—that is, lower my natural anti-magic defences enough to allow a hostile spell to break through. Then I tried it myself—and failed. And failed again and again. My Occlumency lessons with _Snape_ had been more successful. Slytherin grew impatient, insisting that blocking their unique skill was always the first thing nullifiers mastered.

"Well, I'm not your typical nullifier, now am I?" I muttered after yet another humiliating failure. Of the many things I have been accused of, being "typical" is not one of them.

He had me try normal nullifying, testing my skill in that instead. I had no problems with nullifying his curses, though when the pressure on my temples grew too painful, he had me release the absorbed magical energy into the walls. Surprisingly, the beam of energy seemed to do no harm to the walls.

"The walls are enchanted to absorb the energy and apply it to the outer defences," Salazar explained, noting my bemusement.

He eased me back into blocking my nullifying, but his "candles to be extinguished" metaphor still wasn't working for me. Every time I saw a curse hurling through the air at me, the candles flared up again and I had only an instant to darken them again. Not nearly enough time.

After all, what kind of idiot actually _wanted_ to let a hex land on him? Maybe that was my problem. Not that I couldn't do it, but that I couldn't convince myself that lowering my defences qualified as a survival skill.

"What if you are injured and a Healer needs to use a spell to stop blood loss? If you are unable to stop blocking his spells and potions, you could die," he explained when I voiced my doubts.

I thought about all the times Madam Pomfrey had successfully healed me, even in my seventh year, when my nullifying abilities were raging out of control. Maybe it was only curses I blocked—maybe it was instinctive, like ducking when someone's fist swings at your face.

"Try a benign spell instead of a hex," I suggested.

This time, it worked far better. And I suspected the only reason I hadn't managed to suppress my nullifying powers completely was because I was trying too hard. After a few more attempts, none of them an improvement over the first non-threatening spell, Salazar called an end to the lesson.

"Any more, and you will have a headache rivalling that of yesterday," he cautioned when I asked if I should continue trying on my own time. "Expelling the magic like I have instructed you to helps, but you will likely feel sore again tomorrow morning. And your head will hurt. I have more of the potion I gave you yesterday, in case the pain is too much."

As if reminded that they'd been quiet for too long, my muscles started aching again and my head throbbed dully. I resolved to raid Professor Kessel's stores for a muscle relaxant later. While we walked back to the dungeons, Salazar explained the basics of nullifying to me, which turned out to be not quite so basic after all.

There were two main kinds: active and passive. Passive was what we'd been practicing today—the body's natural reaction to being hit by a spell. Everyone's passive nullifying powers were different; it seemed that mine were particularly strong, yet discriminating. They knew, somehow, when to let a spell through. But compared to active nullifying, passive was relatively weak. If I were hit on all sides by stunners, my defensive nullifying wouldn't be enough to stop them all. That was where active nullifying came in.

Active nullifying came in two flavours. One involved consciously nullifying a spell (or potion, as I had demonstrated in my Gryffindor class) affecting the nullifier. In the case of potions, I focussed inwards and actively used my powers to stop the magic. With spells, I "caught" them in the palm of my hand.

Combining active with passive nullifying and nimble dodging was usually enough to protect me from harmful spells. It provided me with a distinct advantage, in fact. Unlike normal wizards, who had to cast a shield charm to block incoming curses, I could both block and cast at the same time.

The other kind of nullifying dealt with nullifying people, objects, or a certain area, like a room, of magic. Again, I'd used this kind of nullifying during my Gryffindor Potions class on the room, stripping everyone in there of magic. It was a bit more complicated, however. I could have nullified everything in the room, down to the students' self-inking quills, but I'd focussed on the students' potions implements. It was a testament to my lack of training that I had accidentally nullified the spells on the students as well.

Nullifying an entire area was the most draining method of nullification. It was far easier to do individual people or objects, which was also all that worked for the more powerful spells. If I were in a room full of people under the Imperius Curse and tried to nullify all of them at once, I would fail. Probably pass out, too. If instead, however, I went to each individual and nullified the curse, I'd likely be able to free them all.

Or I could use the counterspell. This was assuming that I had no wand or that there _was_ no counterspell.

Direct nullification of people or objects was characterised by physical touch. A "laying of hands" type thing. Useful for when you _didn't_ know the counterspell and a Finite Incantatem wasn't enough. Like Occlumency and Legilimency, nullifying wasn't significantly strengthened by having a wand. There was no "nullify" spell. It was wandless magic.

Actually, it wasn't entirely accurate to say that there were only two kinds of nullifying magic. There was a third—sort of the ugly stepchild of nullifying, in that it couldn't be considered a "type" really. It was more a by-product: the beam of white-hot explosive magic I produced with my hand to release the build-up of excess magic. Like alcohol, the body couldn't process the foreign magic very quickly, leaving you sort of drunk with power while it was in your system, and causing one hell of a hangover in the morning.

Releasing it in the form of a ray of magic was the magical equivalent of "purging" which, considering how often I did so, probably made me a bulimic. The best preventative measure, Salazar told me sternly, was to limit how much nullifying I did.

Then Salazar started to get into exceptions and variations that were-and-yet-weren't nullifying, all of which would probably have been infinitely more fascinating after supper and a full night's sleep: partial and multiple and selective nullification, reflective nullification, masking nullification, and blah-de-blah something-or-another, and then we were somehow at my chamber door. Before I knew it, I was in my bed.

_But I need to talk to Remus and Sirius,_ I wanted to argue. I think I might have, because Salazar shook his head, but things were rather fuzzy at that point. Exhaustion overcame my protests, and I was asleep before Salazar was out the door.

* * *

I woke in time for supper, which was less a treat than a grim kind of accomplishment, because it was a tense affair. While it was encouraging to see that even in the Middle Ages the founders and professors wanted to maintain a sense of unity by eating with the students, it was a very loose kind of unity. Loose as in ready to break apart with the slightest nudge.

Morass' splendid little war had everyone picking sides, professor and student alike. Even the individual houses were divided, though the greatest estrangement was between the Gryffindors and Slytherins. Recalling the sabotage-minded Gryffindors from the gardens, my unease increased. What did Salazar think he was doing, encouraging his house's hatred of Muggleborns? Did he even realise how bad things had become? As it was, I could see the tension quite clearly in the strained smiles, open frowns, and furious glares being exchanged across the tables. Canned hostility: warning, contents under pressure.

Actually, it wasn't that different from home. My Hogwarts. Change a few names, and there you had it. I chewed my food slowly, though I wasn't paying much attention to what it was. I was too busy listening to the thinly disguised civilities being exchanged.

Apparently Salazar was speaking with Rowena again, because they took turns sniping at each other, neither content to let the other have the last word. Gryffindor poked at his supper with his dagger, seemingly lost in thought. But I knew what he was thinking about. I swallowed through a suddenly tighter throat. An image of the murdered Dursleys flashed in my mind, in painfully sharp detail. I could almost pick out the individual blood spatters on the grass and pavement. After a struggle, I managed to pull myself out of the past. Mentally, at least.

Professor Kessel jovially sipped at a tankard of beer while arguing magical theory with the Astronomy professor, Halcourt, waving a heavily bandaged hand when he became too enthusiastic about illustrating his point. Halcourt shot venomous looks at Salazar from time to time, which made me inexplicably nervous. Helga watched everyone anxiously, soothing hurts with a kind word or two when exchanges grew too heated.

As for me...this was the first time I had actually had the opportunity to sit down and eat in the Great Hall with everyone. I'd been imprisoned, unconscious, or too sick the previous nights. And mornings. Come to think of it, that was rather discouraging. And it didn't look like my lot would improve much over the next few days.

Anyway, this meant that the other professors spent the whole meal trying to assuage their curiosity with endless, frustratingly unanswerable questions. Sometimes the answers were embarrassing. Like when Professor Kessel asked me if I knew of any students who might have cursed the entrance to the Potions dungeon and I had to reply that, um, actually, that had been me. So sorry, I hoped his hand healed soon?

Burroughs, the short, stocky Magical Creatures professor, frowned his confusion at me as he speared a piece of meat with his knife. "There is something I don't understand, Evans. You're a nullifier."

He phrased it like a question. What did he want me to do? Wave my hand and extinguish every magical light in the hall? Tempting, except that the inevitable screaming afterwards would do things to the resulting headache that made me shudder just to contemplate. Since I was chewing, I spared him a sarcastic remark and nodded in reply.

"Then why did no one know of your existence before you came here? Nullifiers are such rare creatures that it should have been impossible for you to escape notice for so long."

Salazar paused mid-argument with Ravenclaw to glare at Burroughs. For the "rare creature" comment, I presumed, because I didn't much appreciate being referred to as a creature, either. His gaze flicked over to me briefly, but before I could try to read anything into that, he had returned his attention to Rowena and whatever they were arguing about.

I calmly finished chewing and swallowing like a well-mannered little "creature" before I answered. "I hid my abilities and figured out how to nullify on my own. Pure trial and error."

From the look on Burroughs' face and the founders' own reactions to that statement earlier, I gathered that this was not the done thing.

"But why--"

"Personal reasons," I said, interrupting with intentional curtness.

"I see. Then, if you'll pardon the question, why have you chosen to emerge from hiding now?" he asked, gesturing at me with his knife. Salazar glared at him again, but he took no notice.

"Because there is a madman loose, capturing every nullifier he can get his hands on and Hogwarts is the safest place to be?" I replied; Remus always complained that I really needed to learn some diplomacy. He was probably right. Oh well.

"Yes, yes, I'm aware of that, thank you." To his credit, the little man sounded only slightly offended. "But as far as Morass knew, you didn't exist. He had no reason to come after _you_. So...why?"

"Because there's a war going on, and my skills are needed."

As soon as I said it, I could feel the hypocrisy almost like a blow to my chest. I fumbled my knife, and it fell to the hard tabletop with a loud clang that I swear echoed through the whole hall. Hastily, I picked it up. I was now the object of quite a few puzzled stares, but that wasn't what bothered me.

I didn't like to think about wars and fighting, because then I had to think about why I wasn't doing anything myself, in my time period. And I could never really come up with a very good reason. Yes, Dumbledore had lied to me. Several times. Then betrayed my trust. But do I just condemn more Muggleborns and their families to death for that? Aurors, like Sirius and Tonks and even Ron before he retired from the wizarding world?

Maybe that was my reason to begin with, when I was so young and angry, but not anymore. I myself lied all the time now. I had let Salazar believe...

Guilt. That was one factor. I'd almost got Sirius killed during my fifth year. Fourth year, Cedric had died because of me. My parents. Luna. Even the bloody Dursleys. Others escaped with being merely tortured almost to insanity, like Ginny. Those were the _lucky_ ones.

But how many more had died for my inaction? I didn't know exactly what I hoped to accomplish by running and hiding. Saving my own hide, for one thing. Saving my friends too by giving Voldemort no reason to attack them, perhaps, but they refused to cooperate--risking themselves daily, insisting that fighting is necessary, that sometimes sacrifice is needed to secure peace.

I was forced to ask myself some days, when the papers were full of death, a question I truly did not want to answer: could they be right?

Running certainly wasn't going to do much to preserve _me, _I had to admit Oh, it would buy me a few years, at least, until Voldemort controlled everything and I was left with nowhere else to hide. Voldemort had gained far more ground than I was usually willing to acknowledge to myself.

I had never asked to be their saviour, I thought defensively. But that rang childish and whinging in my head. It didn't change that fact that I was. It didn't take that responsibility away.

That's right, my "saving people" complex. Where had it gone? I could remember a time when I had thought, foolishly, idealistically, I could save everyone. When I realised that I couldn't, I somehow reached the conclusion that if I couldn't save them all, it wasn't worth it to try.

If Sirius and Remus, careful not to push but always slightly disapproving; Hermione, openly insistent that my helped was direly needed; and all those nameless, faceless Aurors who had begged for help, if they were right...then that meant I had wasted seven years and come no closer to defeating Voldemort than I had been at the Department of Mysteries.

Ten deaths a week on average, I thought wearily to myself. Ten per week times fifty-two weeks in a year times seven years...that made more than 3500 dead. Mostly Muggles, but still a significant number of wizards. I stared at all the chattering students. There couldn't be more than 600 students in here. More than five times that number, closer to six: that's how many had died.

I don't know what made this place and time so different, but somehow, looking at all these children brought it home more than anything else could ever have. The air in the hall suddenly felt too heavy. I rose to my feet, muttered an apology, and walked quickly out of the hall. Someone sharply told me to sit back down. I kept going, ignoring the order.

It wasn't until I was far away from all of those people that I was able to lean my back against a wall in a dark corridor, arm thrown across my forehead, and breathe freely. I closed my eyes. What was wrong with me? I hadn't felt this guilty, not ever, not on the worst nights when I doubted and questioned my actions. Somehow, I'd always been able to apply logic and reason to my decisions.

But logic and reason no longer seemed to make sense. Why did everything feel so wrong now? What was it about this place that made me look at myself—actually look, take my own measure?

Find it much less than I would have liked.

Merlin, I needed to talk to someone, distract myself, give my jumbled thoughts and emotions time to calm down. I instantly thought of the Chamber. Remus and Sirius. They always listened, never condemned. Maybe that was part of the problem.

"Is something wrong, Harry?"

I jumped at the voice, but when I opened my eyes, it was only Helga Hufflepuff. No danger.

"Nothing," I said automatically. "I'm fine."

"I wondered if perhaps Burroughs said something inappropriate to you," she ventured.

"No," I sighed. "He was quite polite. Far more than I was or would have been in his position."

She shook her head at me, a gentle smile on her face. She had...something that invited you to confide in her. Insight. A lurking sadness in the eyes that suggested she would understand.

"Tell me what's troubling you, Harry. I will speak of it to no one, no matter what Salazar threatens me with," she finished wryly.

I hesitated, crossing my arms. I needed to unburden myself and stop thinking that the problem would just go away or that I could leave it behind if I ran far and fast enough. Before I went completely mad. Finally, I slid down the wall until I was sat on the cold floor and nodded at her. Looking faintly surprised, she took a seat against the wall opposite me.

"Do you..." I began, stopping with a frown. How to explain without giving too much away? "Have you ever had people expect something of you, a rather difficult something you're uncertain you can do?"

She raised her eyebrows, and I knew what I would be thinking in her place: "Could we be more vague, please?"

"Perhaps you could give me an example," she said instead, ever the diplomat.

"Well, say that there's a wizard like Morass about, and he's killing people, lots of them. And he's never going to stop, not until he's dead. But he's bloody near impossible to kill, and you're the only one who can do it. And everyone keeps waiting for you to...go forth and fight, except you know that you couldn't possibly kill him, that he's too powerful and you're so inexperienced next to him and how could they ever expect...?"

"Breathe, Harry," she chided.

I did, but the words kept tumbling out, rushed and clumsy. "At first, everything's okay. You start out thwarting him in small ways, with little cost to yourself. But then people start dying or getting hurt. And then someone you trust betrays you and practically gives you to the enemy himself. And you realise you can't really trust any of them, that you're mostly a weapon to a lot of them. You wonder if you can even do it. You resent people for expecting it to be easy as waving your wand and shouting an incantation."

"Harry--"

I couldn't stop now, not if I wanted to. I wasn't even sure who I was talking to, myself or her. "So you stop trying: it's not worth it. You stop caring when people die: you don't know them. You run, hardly daring to glance behind you, afraid to see how close he is. Afraid to see the dead bodies left along the way. You know that there are more bodies piling up, and at any moment he'll catch you, but you keep hoping that maybe they're all wrong, maybe someone else will stop him..."

Merlin, I needed to shut up before she thought of another use for the nice, padded training room.

"Harry, I wish to help you. I can't do this unless I understand your situation fully," Helga said gently, as though afraid I would bolt away at the first sharp word.

"Look, you don't have to—I don't need to be handled, I just... And anyway, I can't tell you--" Then I pulled my lips back in an angry scowl. "Who am I trying to fool? Fine."

I delimited a small area around us and warded it against sound. "Okay. There's a dark wizard who's been trying to kill me ever since I was a baby. All because of a prophecy that says one of us must kill the other. He's killed fami—people I care about, friends... By all rights, I should be chasing after him for revenge, right? But I'm not."

"Why?"

"Why?" I repeated, scowling. "Do you think there's a simple answer? Do you think I haven't asked myself that over and over? Well, how about this: I don't know! I feel guilty. I don't think I can do it. I resent that everyone wants to depend on me. I'm afraid of failing more than I'm afraid of not trying. So now it's been years since I last tried."

She nodded slowly. "I see. But you are mistaken. It sounds to me that you're still locked in battle, but it has become one of will."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I would guess that at first, you told yourself that you would begin preparing eventually, that you merely required time to reflect." She watched me intently, as if waiting for an objection but knowing that it was only a formality. "Then, as time passed, you probably started asking yourself, _why bother_? You began to think that it was too late. You couldn't change your path. And with each day you continued doing nothing you slowly convinced yourself that this was true."

I gave a surprised nod. "How did you...?"

"Your enemy hasn't attacked you very often during these past few years, has he?"

"No, only a few times, but how did you--"

"Know?" she asked, a smile crinkling the faint lines by her eyes. "Because your enemy has realised what you have not. He doesn't need to expend any effort fighting you, because you have given up. The first day you told yourself that it was not your responsibility, he won a minor victory, one that has grown into almost _complete_ victory over you. He does not seek to battle with you because he thinks he has already won."

"Well, thanks," I muttered, covering my eyes with one hand. "You're supposed to make me feel better, not depress me! If this is an attempt at comforting me, let me warn you before you try it again on some other poor sod: you're awful at it!"

"Well, _I_ thought it comforting," she said.

"Saying that Voldemort has already _won_? Because I don't know about you, but being told that my worst enemy has already defeated me doesn't exactly overwhelm me with joy."

"Harry, I said that he _thinks_ he has won. Have heart! The only person who has defeated you _is_ you, and this Voldemort likely expects you to continue doing just that. Yet despite what you have conditioned yourself to think, your task is not insurmountable, and you still have the capability to change."

"Oh, change. Yes, let's consider my options: fight and die or run away and die a little bit later."

"_Listen_ to yourself. Do you know what I hear? The voice of your enemy, speaking through you. As long as you let him, and let yourself doubt, you are correct: you will fail. Or die, if that is the equivalent of failure. And as for death...we all die, Harry," she said very bluntly.

"Yes, thank you, I've been made quite aware of that, I assure you. But excuse me if I'm in no hurry to do so."

"And when Voldemort controls everything? Once his power is consolidated he will finally come after you. And then you will be fighting alone."

I was silent. I'd asked for it, but that didn't make Hufflepuff's analysis any more palatable. What had I wanted? Agreement that I'd made the best choice I could?

"I think you know what you must do," she said, watching me. "Harry, I understand the temptation to remain here with those who love you, but once you've learnt what you can from Salazar, you must return."

It would be far easier to give into that temptation if people cared about me for who I really was, and not who they thought I was. Even knowing that it was false didn't make it much less attractive a prospect. Strange, how used to this place and its people I'd become after so short a time.

She interpreted my lack of answer as negation. "Would you condemn the future to darkness?"

"No." I crossed my arms, feeling oddly torn and wondering why it was so easy to agree with Hufflepuff. Maybe because Voldemort was so distant right now and he'd gone so long without attack me that the threat didn't seem entirely real. And part of it was probably this new sense of responsibility that had somehow crept up on me when I wasn't paying attention. I took a deep breath. "No, you're right. I have to at least _try_ to help them. I just wish—but, well, what's the point?"

"Careful, Harry. Pessimism can be a shield, but shields don't let anyone in."

"Which is the _function_ of a shield," I muttered. I shrugged at Hufflepuff. "Don't forget sarcasm and cynicism while you're psychoanalysing me. But you're looking at it the wrong way. It's not a weakness, or at least, I don't think so. You need humour, sometimes, because it's that or go mad. So what if it's dark humour? Whatever gets you through the day in one piece, I say."

"I would hope more than that 'gets you through the day,'" she said with a curious sadness in her eyes.

I considered that for a while. What made me get up in the morning? Morbid curiosity to see if Fate could think up something even worse for me? I hadn't been disappointed yet.

"Of course there's more than that," I said, forcing myself to be serious. I thought of Remus' excellent cooking and gentle advice, Sirius' crazy humour, and Hermione's dry anecdotes of disasters on the job. I sighed. If I kept that up, I'd make myself homesick on top of everything else. Evidently, my ties to the future remained strong.

I stood, swaying as a wave of dizziness passed over me. How long would it take before I could take a step without feeling like a strong wind could knock me over? Trying to cover my weakness, I offered Hufflepuff my hand and helped her to her feet. I almost fell down myself.

"Will you think about what I've said?" she asked me.

I didn't want to answer. It felt too much like commitment, which I avoided at all costs. But for some reason, I nodded. "Yes. I think I will."

Ugh, stupid. I would have smacked myself if I'd been certain it wouldn't knock me unconscious with pain. Blurting out my pathetic life's story, treating Hufflepuff like some wisewoman who had all the answers. And actually _agreeing_ to—I stopped, mid rant. I hadn't really agreed to do much. Think about it. Think more responsibly. Think positive thoughts.

Acknowledge that I needed to do something about Voldemort. It felt odd to even think about it, after years spent doing my best to avoid any thought involving Voldemort or the war. But if I expected to defeat him and live, it was about time I started preparing.

Yet doubt began to niggle at this newfound—whatever. Determination? _Sure, you decide to stop running and just like that you'll be able to kill him? Be realistic! He's still several times more powerful and three times your age, and you've wasted these last seven years playing at normality when you could have been training for the moment you face him. Seven years that he's been using to increase his power and control._

_I'll defeat him because I'm too stubborn to die,_ I snarled at the nasty voice.

My inner dialogue—oh, bad, bad sign, but all wasn't lost until I started doing it aloud, right?—was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Hufflepuff and I turned towards the sound, and I removed my wards. A wizard rounded the corner, one of the sentries I'd stunned yesterday. His expression was strained, but some of the tension in it eased as his eyes lit upon Lady Hufflepuff. He hurried over to us.

"More wizards at the border between the school and the forest, milady," he reported, slightly out of breath. "Claim to know someone matching this bloke's description." He pointed at me. With his wand. Which erased any doubt that he might hold yesterday's stunning against me.

But—more? I didn't know if I should be exasperated or worried. "Who is it this time? Hermione? Tonks?"

"No. The witch said to tell you that your old friend 'Bella' was here. Does that mean anything to you?"

Everything constricted around me at the sound of her name. Bellatrix Lestrange. She had almost killed Sirius in my fifth year, when I led a disastrous mission to the Department of Mysteries to recover the prophecy. Nearly a year later, she killed Luna Lovegood, a Ravenclaw that I'd grown...fond of. And then tortured Ginny Weasley almost to the point of insanity just last Christmas. She sent me a pensieve containing what I can only assume was her memory of those three nightmarish days before the Order managed a successful rescue, but Ginny, tight-lipped, had refused to let me near it and _reductoed_ it with grim concentration.

It was at her that I'd cast my first, and to this day, only, Unforgivable. Cruciatus. It had been feeble, uncertain, but I had managed to cause just a little pain. Righteous anger wasn't enough? Fine, I'd do better next time, I resolved. I spent an entire month after in the Hogwarts library researching the darkest and most painful curses I could find in the restricted section, just for her. Neither Dumbledore nor my friends ever came close to guessing how I'd used that month.

I didn't regret learning them, either. Voldemort was a cunning bastard who'd killed far too many, but Bellatrix tortured people. She liked to _play_ until death came as a relief.

She was playing even now, taunting me with her close proximity because she knew the extent of my hatred, revelled in it. I suspected she didn't think I would be able to do anything, that my attempts at the Cruciatus would fall short like they had at the Ministry. She was wrong. I was older now. I was much, much better at hating. _You want a playmate, Bellatrix? How about one who bites back?_

"Harry?" Hufflepuff called, breaking through my daze.

"Yes?" I asked with an assumed calm, trying to control the trembling in my hands.

Her eyes were dark with worry. "Is something wrong?"

I studied her for a moment, and knew that I couldn't tell her. She'd try to stop me, even though she'd just told me to fight back against my enemies. And now I was planning to, so who was she to scruple over my methods? Why shouldn't I use every means at my disposal to hurt those who'd hurt me?

Because it's _wrong_? said something in me that sounded remarkably like Remus. I dismissed it angrily. Wrong was a fifteen year-old girl dying in agonising pain, her only crime associating with me. Wrong was Neville growing up with his parents interred in the psychiatric ward at St. Mungo's. _Wrong_ was waiting in terrified trepidation for the message to come that Ginny had been rescued safely...or her body recovered. Fearing that at any moment, I would witness her torture myself should my connection to Voldemort pull me into his mind.

What I planned to do was take all those wrongs and visit them upon Bellatrix. Tenfold. With interest.

"Nothing's wrong." I smiled, or I thought I had, but both Lady Hufflepuff and the sentry flinched at my expression. I must have twitched the wrong facial muscles. "In fact, I'd like to see my dear friend Bella right now. Is she waiting outside?"

"Yes," the sentry said slowly, looking to Hufflepuff for direction. When she provided none, he turned to me. "They wait just past the gates, at the edge of the castle's wards. Shall I go apprise Lord Salazar of the situation?"

"No need," I said quickly. "I'll go now--"

"No," Hufflepuff interrupted. "You're a nullifier. Someone must go with you. Patrick, find Salazar." The sentry gave a slight bow and started down the corridor further into the school. "Harry, I will accompany you. For you to go alone would be far too dangerous."

"On the contrary," I said, pushing past her. "I'm able to defend myself better when I don't have to worry about...someone getting in the way."

"Getting in the way?" she echoed, trotting to keep up with me. "What do you mean?"

I stopped and whirled swiftly, so that she managed to stop herself just inches from me. "I mean that I haven't seen Bella is such a long time, and I'm very pleased to see her. I wouldn't want anyone to come between us when we exchange...greetings. And no, I will not wait."

She took a step back and her face hardened with determination. She called after the departing sentry. "Patrick! Go with Harry. I can find Salazar far more quickly than you." She took my hands in hers. "Harry, I will not stop you, but please go slowly. Salazar will know how to handle this. This could be a trap, some ploy to get you away from the castle's protection..."

"What, like when Remus and Sirius showed up?" I asked pointedly. "Even if it is, don't worry. I'm so used to traps, I wouldn't know where to begin handling a normal situation. Go. Find Salazar, then."

She nodded with visible relief—at my implied promise (why did no one ever realise that I never promised, I just insinuated?) or at the prospect of getting away from me, I couldn't tell—and hurried away. The sentry caught up to me in a few quick strides.

"If there's any sign that your 'friends' are not who they appear to be, you must make your way to the castle as swiftly as possible," he said. "They shouldn't be able to get past the barrier, but if somehow they do, I will hold them."

"If they can get through that, wouldn't my usefulness as a nullifier be moot at that point? Morass' forces would storm the castle, and I would be just another target."

"No one with ties to the Slytherin family will ever be 'just another target' to Morass," he answered grimly.

We were nearing the entrance to Hogwarts and I was running out of time, or else I would have asked what the sentry meant by that cryptic remark.

"Listen—Patrick, is it?" I said. "Before we get out there, you need to know a few things." I stopped and looked at him seriously. "One, I can handle this myself. Two, you will only get in the way. One and two add up to three, which I'm sorry to say is: _Stupefy_." I caught him as he collapsed, and as I manoeuvred him into the nearest room, I absently noted to myself that I needed to stop making a habit of stunning the people assigned to guard me.

Bellatrix stood still and silent as I walked up to the gates. I pushed through, and she watched me with a creepy smile that she probably thought would intimidate me.

It did, a little, as I wondered how many people had died beneath her wand, that smile the last thing they saw. But not nearly enough.

I didn't waste my breath on speech. I slashed my wand through the air in three quick, precise motions and the blood boiling curse flashed burgundy light as it left my wand and hurtled towards Bellatrix. Caught off guard, she barely managed to fling herself out of the spell's path. She fired a curse back at me with a careless laugh, like we were playing an amusing game.

The curse vanished halfway between her and me in a flash of pure white light that was blinding in the night, since all we had for lighting was torchlight along the gate. My headache flared, and I bit my lip against the pain. Once the spots in my vision abated somewhat, I stared at the patch of air that had absorbed her spell.

My thoughts raced. The castle's wards, of course! And like her spell, Bellatrix wouldn't be able to pass through the wards either, not unless one of the founders allowed her. Could I pass through to her? I had been able to go through the Hogsmeade passage without running into any invisible barriers. But I hadn't been conscious when I was brought back.

Now that I was thinking about it, where was the magic that defended Hogwarts? There had to be a shielding barrier between Bellatrix and me, but it was difficult to detect with my nullifying senses—Hogwarts was so infused with magic that it was like trying to identify a single voice in a raucous crowd. Well, just so long as it didn't try to stop _my_ spells, I had no problem with it.

I met her eyes, keeping my fury cold so it wouldn't make me reckless. I advanced until the air turned thick about me, like molasses. Each move forward was a trial, and I finally retreated a few steps. Movement became natural again. Bellatrix watched me the whole while.

"Do come out here, away from those pesky little wards, and we'll have such fun. I'm curious how long you would hold out under the Cruciatus." She considered me. "Longer than many I have tested, I suspect. But no one lasts forever, the mind's construction sees to that. Enough pain, and it shuts down in defence. And once that is breached, it has one final defence—death."

"I was just waiting for you to say something clichéd like that," I said levelly. "How about it? Shall we go through the usual meandering talks of death and torture or could we get to the point for once?" She kept watching me, with that terrifying half-smile. "Why are you here," I gritted out finally, clenching my wand tightly and trying to swallow the anger again.

"Wrong question," she said, laughing. "You should be wondering _how_ I'm here."

"Oh, I know the how. Ill planning on the part of your parents."

"My, such a witty boy," the witch cooed, wicked amusement glinting in her dark eyes. "Let me tell you, anyway. Or give you a hint."

I didn't answer, just stared at the empty space that separated us as effectively as a wall of fire. Oh well. I wouldn't have the satisfaction of strangling her myself, but there were spells to do that. My spells weren't the ones being blocked, after all. I toyed with the idea of trying the disembowelment curse. You had to consider the merits of long, drawn out suffering over days next to the utter surety of watching your enemy die in front of you.

"A little chameleon helped," she said, when I didn't answer.

Chameleon? Metamorphmagus. "Tonks," I whispered. Apprehension gripped me. "What about her?"

She didn't answer immediately, instead reaching for a medallion that hung from her neck. She turned it over in her hands, tracing something with her fingers. "Didn't you ever wonder how your favourite puppetmaster tied your protectors to you when the orb activated?"

I stared at the medallion. It was a simple black cord of leather, with a round, golden disc like a coin fastened to it. Taking note of my scrutiny, Bellatrix ripped the cord from her neck and held it out to me, advancing almost to the magical barrier with apparent ease. I idly wondered why, as I took a closer look at the medallion. There was writing on the golden disc that I couldn't quite make out. I stepped closer to it, until Bellatrix and I were almost within strangling distance.

My fingers itched to curse her into a pain-filled oblivion, but curiosity overruled it. I could now read the small writing. It said "Tonks," in Dumbledore's loopy hand. I was left breathless by a sudden fear. If she wasn't lying, she must have done something to Tonks in order to acquire the charmed medallion. I hadn't seen any similar medallions on Sirius and Remus, but that didn't necessarily mean that Bellatrix was lying. They could easily have covered them with their robes. In fact, knowing Remus, that was more than likely.

"What did you do to her?" I demanded, pointing my wand directly at her face.

"Don't fret. It wasn't anything...permanent," she replied. I wasn't comforted. She smiled slyly. "Come now, why so militant all of a sudden? If you remain neutral as you have in the past, my lord might decide to show mercy to your friends rather than the opposite."

I felt cold. Here it was, part of what I had hoped to accomplish with my inaction all these years: that Voldemort would leave my friends alone if I kept out of the war. It would really only be an extension of his policy so far: leaving me generally alone, except for a few half-hearted attempts at capture. Hufflepuff was right; he didn't want me to enter the war, because my interference would tax his resources. Here was my chance to spit in the face of Fate, deny the prophecy and refuse my role in it.

But here Bellatrix was, neutral though I had remained. Voldemort's promise was a lie. He would never let me rest if he thought I might be a threat. Bellatrix was probably here because my meeting with Dumbledore had worried him. I hadn't spoken to Dumbledore for almost five years.

He was...worried. Worried? The idea shocked me, because I had always assumed him to be invulnerable, that any attempt on my part to attack him would naturally fail. But if he truly feared my involvement, that meant he _could_ be hurt.

And if he could be hurt, he could be killed. Prophecies can be doubted. Actions don't lie. I stared at Bellatrix, and an inexplicable amusement rose within me. I laughed at her, and the shock on her face was worth the pain the action caused my head and aching muscles. She was fanatically devoted to her master, and yet, in bringing me to this sudden realisation, she could very well be the instrument of his destruction.

I might not have challenged Voldemort when I returned to the future, I reflected, despite my talk with Lady Hufflepuff, because I hadn't believed myself capable of defeating him. My doubts would have eventually overcome any resolution I might have mustered. Maybe I would even have stayed here, left the future to Voldemort and have regretted it some dark nights when I couldn't sleep. He would have won.

But Voldemort had made the mistake of sending his most loyal Death Eater after me, revealing a dangerous truth: he could be harmed.

Bellatrix's momentary surprise turned into anger. "You refuse my lord's generous offer?"

"When we get back, Lestrange, you can personally deliver my reply to him: sod off."

"You dare!" she spat, drawing her wand so that it was nearly touching mine. "When we get back, I'll take every pleasure in eliminating every last person you hold dear. I will listen to their screams, and your name will be a curse on their lips as they die. Have taste of their pain..._Crucio_!"

The barrier swallowed the magic, and I heard a cry of pain. I had closed my eyes in anticipation of the blinding light, but she hadn't, and the light had temporarily blinded her. I smiled at her helplessness and didn't try to contain the fierce craving for her pain that rose within me.

"How...ineffective of you," I said with a mocking laugh. "Do I have to show you how it works? _Crucio_."

Her shrieks of rage became screams of throat-tearing agony that I listened to with both enjoyment and a muted horror that I could enjoy such a sound. My greatest tormenter writhed under the force of my own pain and anger, bottled up for far too long.

I kept the spell trained on her and felt like I could have maintained it forever with the endlessly replenishing well of hatred I had for her. It would be a poetic justice to see her suffer the fate of the Longbottoms. Then I thought what she'd said earlier about insanity being an escape from pain. I stared down at her writhing, curled up form, faintly surprised that my desire for revenge remained unsated.

Surely I could devise something more original and more painful than Cruciatus followed by insanity and death. I lifted the curse, battling a reluctance that made me uneasy. Bellatrix collapsed, a few limbs still twitching.

"So," she gasped, "ickle Harry Potter is all grown up and using Unforgivables now? It won't save you."

"Funny, because I always thought that a couple of Avada Kedavras would go a long way towards reducing my problems," I said, fighting the urge to apply the curse again.

She staggered to her feet like a drunkard, wiping blood from her mouth where she'd bit through her lip. Where were the others? I suddenly wondered. The sentry had mentioned _friends_, plural, but only Bellatrix had been in view when I arrived. Where had they been while I was cursing Bellatrix?

"What are you doing here?" I asked again.

"Making sure you don't delude yourself into thinking you could actually confront the Dark Lord," she answered with a sneer. "Dark magic won't help you, though you're welcome to try it. I'm sure that old Muggle-lover will be very distressed when he finds out what his precious 'Golden Boy' has been learning."

"I don't plan on telling Dumbledore," I said, fiddling with my wand a bit. Bellatrix followed its movements warily, I noted with intense satisfaction. "So unless you fancy stopping by Hogwarts for a chat over tea, he'll never know."

She laughed suddenly, seemingly recovered from the curse entirely; but then, I expected most Death Eaters would have built up varying degrees of resistance to it. "You're wasted on the Light, Potter. You enjoyed that, didn't you?"

"Very much," I said softly.

Her eyes narrowed, and she said, "We'll see what happens between the two of us next time, when you don't have a shield to cower behind."

"If there's a next time, Bellatrix, then I assure you that you won't be walking away from it."

"Brave little Gryffindor, are you?"

"No. Just a very determined one."

It was her turn to be discomfited. She didn't say anything though, and we studied one another for a minute, gauging weaknesses and cataloguing strengths. I sincerely planned for there to _be_ no "next time" for me and her, but if there was, I would be prepared.

Was revenge worth the risk of her escaping? Maybe a quick death truly was the best solution. A single Avada Kedavra. Simple, elegant, final. One less worry, one less weakness. She wouldn't be expecting it, I thought with a sudden insight. She expected me to draw it out, which is what she'd do in my place. I was fast, and I knew it. The green light would already have engulfed her before she realised what it meant.

What would it be like to see that horrible light from the other end of the wand? I finally noticed that my wand was raised, and lowered it shakily. No. Not yet.

Logic. I could try Legilimency on Bellatrix to discover what Voldemort was planning, what she had done to Tonks. I already had eye-contact; I started probing cautiously at her mind.

It was a kaleidoscope of nightmarish images, jumbled and distorted. I could see the faces of her victims, hear their tortured screams; I shared her immense pleasure at the pain she wrought. Her obsession with Voldemort was present in all of them; she did these things both out of a twisted love for him and genuine enjoyment and belief that every death was deserved. I recalled how much satisfaction I had felt while holding her under the Cruciatus Curse, and nausea rose in me.

I forced myself to push away all emotion, to find the memory I needed.

_Head bowed, before a tall, dark figure. "...we were unable to secure Black's or Lupin's link, master. Dumbledore presented the medallions to them personally. He sent one to my filthy blooded niece, however, by owl. I have hers."_

I felt some of my fear ease—Tonks was all right.

_Voldemort spoke, his voice cold like I often heard in nightmares. "Unacceptable. We need at least one more."_

_She looked up, her eyes shining. "Yes, my lord. I will not fail you."_

_"What is that old fool planning?" Voldemort mused, absently reaching a hand down to stroke Bellatrix's hair like most people would a pet dog. "You will find his purpose in going back. Do not try to kill him. You will fail. Leave as soon as you have taken the Orb. I will contact you. If what I fear is true, you shall indeed hear from me soon."_

I pulled out of her mind, and felt like I was the one who had been violated instead of Bellatrix. Her eyes were unfocussed, and I glanced away with a shudder. She was insane. She was sick, perverted, sadistic, and one hundred per cent certifiably loony. I tried to separate my sense of self from the echo of hers that persisted in me. I really did _not_ need to feel her obsessive devotion to Voldemort when I faced him.

I broke free of the last slimy tendrils of her memories and pondered the significance of Voldemort's last words to her. "If what I fear is true..." What did that mean? What did he fear? That I was indeed working with Dumbledore? But why would he know and not her? No, that didn't make any sense. Did it have something to do with the prophecy?

"Neither can live while the other survives..." I was in a different time period entirely. Was I technically living or surviving or whatever as far as the prophecy was concerned? And how would that impact Voldemort? I recalled Salazar surmising that Voldemort was uncertain of what that phrase meant.

Did he fear what would happen if I were to "die"?

"Legilimency, Potter?" Bellatrix slurred, still disoriented from my attack on her mind. "See anything you liked? I'd be happy to swap tales of torture."

A flash of mixed annoyance and anger called me from my musings. "Shut up."

"Wouldn't you like to see more?" She established eye contact again. "My lord taught me a trick or two for Legilimens foolish enough to practise their craft on me."

A force pulled me back into her mind, while something in me protested that this was impossible, shouldn't the magical barrier have blocked the magic...? I struggled against her grip on my mind, but the images of blood and nails and torn flesh shattered my concentration.

_Haven't you ever wondered how the Weasley child fared under my tender ministrations?_ came her voice in my mind, lazy with feline amusement. _I was generous enough to send you a pensieve, but I hear you destroyed it. Such a waste._

She dragged me, resisting all the way, to the night of Ginny Weasley's ambush and capture. I watched her proud defiance falter as more and more pain was heaped upon her and defiance became unbearable. Curses overlapped with curses, and she started screaming long before the torture ended. Throughout I could hear snatches of Bellatrix's cooing voice, and I caught Ginny mouthing my name a few times. My jaw clenched with each shriek and strangled sob.

At one point, I had given up fighting Bellatrix's grip on me, and watched helplessly. A part of me whispered that I deserved to see this, to see what my inaction had bought my friends. Nothing. Worse than nothing. Bellatrix eventually cut the scene short.

_Had enough yet?_ She laughed cruelly. _I've plenty more. Shall we dig some more, and stop when we spot someone you know? The Loony girl?_

Her grip on me eased slightly, and I took the opportunity to buck against her control. I broke free, but not before catching a glimpse of a familiar face: Morass. I stopped at that memory, and listened while Bellatrix struggled to reassert control.

_Bellatrix and a Death Eater I didn't recognise were walking with a tall figure in a thickly wooded area. They stopped as they reached a camp full of tents. I could see what I estimated to be approximately three dozen wizards milling about doing various tasks. The younger ones were cooking while others duelled. A few were handling a struggling dragon. The entire camp had a restless feel, like the wizards had been denied action too long and hungered for excitement. _

_"More and more curious," the cloaked figure said. "But why will you tell me nothing of the boy?"_

_He turned to face Bellatrix. Morass. I shivered, looking at him. It was approaching dusk, which made his parchment-pale skin and dark red-brown eyes stand out even more. They were cold, with a fanatical kind of madness in them. Insane and fully conscious of it, I thought._

_"Why should I give information away freely?" she asked. "Offer me something of value and I will perhaps be more inclined to share what I know."_

_"Ah, no matter. Curiosity makes an excellent spice. Even so, it is inconceivable," he murmured, fingering something hanging at his neck. The shell contraption. I watched it with trepidation, recalling the utter helplessness it had induced in me. "To think that I hadn't failed at all, not entirely."_

Bellatrix was dangerously close to regaining the upper hand in our mental struggle, and I reluctantly broke off from the memory. Focussing my will, I wrenched my mind free of hers, trying to guess just what exactly she had done. It wasn't Legilimency, because that would put _her_ in _my_ head. It was reverse Occlumency, in a way, in that instead of protecting her mind, she managed to seize mine and drag it into hers to display her disgusting memories. I threw up my Occlumency shields in case she tried again.

Bellatrix Lestrange pulled herself up to her full height and slowly but confidently stepped closer to me. I watched incredulously as she approached the barrier and _pushed_. The barrier distorted round her, stretching like bubble gum. It was a good deal hardier, fortunately, because she wasn't able to break through.

"It worked, just as he thought it would," she marvelled.

"Who? What did you do to the barrier?" I rasped, my throat dry from the mental strain of being in her mind.

"It's what _you_ did to it." She awarded me with a smile that showed a lot of teeth. "Or rather, what your spells did to it."

I studied the barrier more carefully now. I could see that it wasn't just one spell, or even a dozen, but hundreds—some drawing strength from nature itself, others from the magical core of Hogwarts, and some that I couldn't trace. It was a complicated mesh of interconnected spells. And each and every spell glowed with a pure, blue-white light, except for a faded, greyish patch between Bellatrix and me. I realised with dismay that my Cruciatus had weakened this point in Hogwarts' defences in a way that no nullifying magic could.

Magic cast from the outside was absorbed by the spells, and actually reinforced the magic. My curse, however, had passed through freely, corrupting parts of the spell and weakening the overall defences of Hogwarts in the one small area, like a worn patch on a very large rug.

"_Percuro_," I murmured reluctantly.

Bellatrix, expecting another angry curse, perhaps, didn't dodge my healing spell. It galled me that I should be forced to heal my most hated enemy to preserve the integrity of the defences—assuming this would indeed help—even as it surprised me that I was actually putting duty above my own desires. I hadn't been doing much of that in these last few years.

Bellatrix's posture relaxed slightly as the healing spell soothed phantom pains she probably hadn't even noticed. She let out a cry of rage when the barrier grew slightly more taut forced her back with an elastic kind of recoil.

"Rule number one for taunting your enemies: make sure they can't make use of any information you divulge," I stated before adding, uncharitably, "idiot."

She opened her mouth to respond to my gibe, but stopped, her attention caught by something rapidly approaching. Dread made my stomach and heart trade places and I turned slowly to see Salazar Slytherin and Helga Hufflepuff all but running towards us. A thwarted fury came over Bellatrix's face before her lips relaxed into a too-sweet smile.

"I will bring your answer to my lord. I must admit, I hoped you would refuse. We had made certain...preparations in the event that you did. You think you have known war, Harry? This will make the last seven years look like a _primer_."

"I'll stop you," I said firmly.

"You make the assumption that you'll have returned by the time he knows. Yours is not the only Tempus Orb. But don't fret, you will be seeing me again, Harry. And then we shall see just how proficient at the Unforgivables you are."

With a mocking wave, she turned and strode away while I stood frozen, my every instinct screaming for me to curse her retreating back while reason pointed out that I had to think of the wards, I couldn't run the risk of weakening them still further. Then Bellatrix took the choice out of my hands and disapparated.

I was trembling with mixed frustration and anger when the two founders reached me.

"Harry," Hufflepuff gasped, panting to catch her breath. "We felt the wards falter. Who was that? What did she do?"

Salazar said nothing, his expression closed except for a momentary flash of relief when he verified that I was unharmed. He knelt beside the magical barrier while I stared at the spot where Bellatrix had stood.

"Bitch." Salazar looked at me sharply. "Sorry, I was answering Helga's question. That's who she was, and that's what she did. The rest..." I hesitated and then continued. "The rest was me."

Hufflepuff stepped through the wards without experiencing the resisting force I had and from the other side, reached out a hand and pressed the weakened spot on the wards, feeling the give. "You did this?"

Salazar glanced up from his study of the defences and nodded. "Yes, he must have. It is impossible to damage the barrier from the outside. _What_ he did is of more concern to me."

"Guess," I said bitterly.

"I think I can." He closed his mouth against something he wanted to say and made an impatient gesture at Hufflepuff. "Do come back inside the wards, Helga. It would be too ironic for my tastes if Morass snatched you mere feet from the safety of the castle's barrier."

"What did you do, Harry?" Helga asked as she effortlessly passed back through the wards. "Salazar?"

"Inside." He stood. "There is little I can do to reinforce the spells here. Within a few days, they should mend on their own."

I followed them back into the castle, and though I knew I should be more worried about what would happen once I was alone with Salazar, my thoughts kept drifting back to my encounter with Bellatrix Lestrange. What did she mean, there was more than one Tempus Orb? I knew that, Dumbledore had said that the ministry had another one. But she had no access to that one, or she wouldn't have had to steal Tonks' medallion.

Unless she meant that she would acquire the second Orb in this present time? Had it been made yet? Since it seemed that she and the other Death Eater were allied with Morass now, maybe he was planning to make another one of his "Timekeys"? But Salazar had said they were a failure. And Morass himself in the memory had been under that impression too. So probably not.

It was also entirely possible that she'd said that just to drive me mad with confusion and worry. In which case, she was succeeding admirably.

Salazar murmured something to Hufflepuff as we entered the school and she shook her head, whispering something back. Ravenclaw met us when we reached the Great Hall.

"Salazar, Helga, I felt the wards--"

"It has been dealt with," Salazar interrupted.

Ravenclaw looked at me and frowned. "Is it something he--"

"Let me handle this, Rowena."

"I will not let you keep sweeping these things under the rug, Salazar, not when they risk the safety of nearly a thousand students!" Ravenclaw snapped, jerking her head in a pointed nod at me.

I was abruptly glad that it had been Salazar that Hufflepuff fetched rather than Ravenclaw.

"Rowena," Hufflepuff interjected, "let it be. The matter touches upon one of Salazar's areas of expertise."

"Helga, not you too!" Ravenclaw crossed her arms, tiny and defiant, as she glared at me. "I don't know what you did to convince Helga of your good intentions, but I assure you that I will not be persuaded."

"Not if the naked truth prostrated itself before her, begging for an audience," Salazar muttered very quietly.

Unready to commit suicide just yet, though this time period seemed determined to drive me to that point, I did not laugh. Or even let the smallest hint of a smile cross my face. But when I remembered Salazar's earlier argument with Rowena, all temptation vanished. Ravenclaw might not be very good at recognising the truth as far as my story was concerned, but she was quite capable at spotting _un_truth.

"I won't act on my fears yet," Ravenclaw told me. "I am willing to admit that I may be wrong, unlike some. But I will not dismiss my suspicions."

I nodded slowly. "Good."

She frowned as if uncertain that I was being serious. "Good?"

"A little suspicion is good," I said, shrugging.

Ravenclaw looked as me as though I was a student who, gently guided to the right answer, had given the wrong one nevertheless. "But shouldn't--"

"Another time, Rowena. Helga will no doubt be delighted to explain what happened." He gave a dismissive nod that earned an irritated frown from Ravenclaw and took me by the arm. His voice, when he spoke to me, was curt. "The training room. Now."

When we arrived, Salazar closed the door very gently. For a moment, he stood there, facing the door with an eerie stillness that made me nervous. Then he took a deep breath and turned around. His face betrayed no emotion.

"You are a fool."

I wished he hadn't chosen this room. There were no chairs, no furniture. The room was stark and white and didn't allow any illusion that this was a casual conversation. I couldn't sit, or look at anything to avoid Salazar's eyes, or fiddle with anything. Did they really put crazy people in rooms like this? If they weren't crazy to begin with, I was fairly certain that a few hours in the room would do the trick.

"I didn't know it would weaken the wards," I said in my defence, closing my eyes as I rubbed my temples to ease my unceasing headache. "How could I have? Morass didn't know either, or wasn't sure, if my suspicions about the reason for Bellatrix's visit are right."

"The woman?"

I nodded, swallowing words that would betray my terrible hatred of her.

"That isn't what I am referring to."

"What, then? Don't keep me in suspense." I opened my eyes, but Salazar's expression hadn't changed.

"You used two curses on her," he said calmly. "One I did not recognise, but it is impossible to hide the nature of magic from an experienced nullifier, and the wards could only have been weakened by one kind of magic. They were both dark spells, and one of them was sustained for a very long time to have caused so much damage."

I tried to estimate how long I had held the Cruciatus, but realised uneasily that I had no idea. I had been so caught in watching that I had lost all sense of time or anything other than Bellatrix's pain. But she'd more than deserved it, I thought angrily. I let my arms drop and folded them across my chest. "You don't know who she is, or what she's done--"

"I don't care," came the crisp reply. "Even if she murdered everyone you ever cared for—take revenge, surely, but not like this. Let it be clean and let it be quick. Death is justice, if her crime is great enough. Torture is not. It is answering one crime with greater one because you lessen the gap between who the criminal is and who you are. Would you be the greater criminal?"

His tone was even and his pitch never wavered, but somehow I could sense an undercurrent of passion in his words. "This sounds like something you've thought about before," I said.

"I have killed," he stated. "Is that what you wish to hear? I have tortured. I have hated, as you do, and sought revenge. There are those that hate me back for what I have done in the name of vengeance. Am I absolved because I was wronged first? Do those I have hurt in turn have a right to visit upon me the punishments I dealt out? Judge me as you have judged your Bellatrix. If one of them were to have me helpless under his wand, would he be right to do as he pleases?"

"It's not the same," I protested. "I doubt you ever tortured someone to death for the sole reason that you enjoy pain, or killed someone as a demonstration of power."

"Do you? Doubt?"

Something bleak shadowed his face then and his eyes were dark with memories. I felt my certainty waver. "What do you mean? You're saying that you've...?"

"Do you know what dark magic does?" He studied me and laughed a dead laugh that chilled the air. "No. You have known darkness, that much is apparent, and every soul casts a shadow. But you have had little experience with how magic can shape a wizard, how it can enhance faults and prey upon weaknesses."

I thought about the Cruciatus again, and how I hadn't wished to stop, and the siren call of Avada Kedavra. I didn't like the thought that some part of me revelled in the pain of others, but I had stopped--

Because I hadn't wanted to leave her unable to feel more pain. Because I knew that there were worse curses than the Unforgivables, waiting patiently in dusty books hidden at the backs of libraries for the right person to find them and want to learn them.

No, damn it! I refused to believe that wanting to hurt Bellatrix was wrong. Just because I had taken satisfaction in seeing a little bit of poetic justice in the world didn't mean that I was more likely to do the same thing to someone else who didn't deserve it. Maybe the spell had influenced me slightly—I knew there were reasons some curses were classified as "dark"—but I had stopped. I hadn't let it control me. Maybe other wizards weren't able to resist the temptation, but I had, and I certainly didn't feel like I was about to prance around the school merrily throwing painful or lethal curses at schoolchildren. My seventh year Gryffindor and Slytherin Potions students, perhaps, but I thought there might be some justification there.

I examined Salazar back. Here was one of history's great villains, the Muggle and Muggleborn-hater who'd inspired later wizards to commit murder again and again in his name. Why was he telling me this? In a few more years—or decades, I wasn't sure—he would plant his basilisk in the school and start his own war to purge the world of Muggleborns. He was a notorious dark wizard. His own father had disowned him for practising dark magic and he was lecturing me about them?

"You don't believe me or don't wish to," Salazar said when it seemed I wouldn't reply.

"You're telling me it's wrong, but you're done the same." And he would do the same in the future.

A part of his mask shattered, and when he spoke, it was with visible regret and anguish. "You do not understand. I am telling you that it's wrong _because_ I have done the same. I have travelled down this path that has opened before you, and I know exactly where it leads and what you must sacrifice along the way. I speak from experience when I say that _it is not worth it_."

"What path?" I demanded. "It was two curses. On one person. I hate her, yes. I would do the same given another chance, yes. That doesn't mean anything!"

The rest of his calm fell away. "It does. It means something that you were willing to cast them at all! They are called 'dark' for a reason. Many dangerous spells can be used with good or ill intent, with only the caster's own will at work. Dark spells influence you, and it does not matter how strong you are or that you think you can overcome whatever temptations they offer. They erode the will, and given enough time, will amplify every bad quality you possess. The day will come when innocence and guilt, love and hate, mean nothing to you; you will only see a target for your frustrations."

"I don't plan to use them again, if that's what you're worrying about," I said. "Not unless I need to."

"Need. You never once 'needed' to use them on that woman. You wanted to. There is a difference."

"And what do you suggest I do next time, then?" I countered. "Ooze moral superiority at her? That'll do her in."

With only the slightest of hesitation, Salazar took a step towards me and put his hands on my shoulders. I could sense what this cost him, and managed not to jump at the unfamiliar, close contact. The white room fell away from me as I read the desperation in him, his unfathomable need for me to understand when I couldn't.

"Stun her. Or kill her. There are spells you can use that are not dark. Use a blade, if you are not comfortable using magic to kill. I assure you that if you use dark magic long enough, that discomfort will be one of the first moral compunctions lost."

I closed my eyes again and saw the castle's barrier, saw Bellatrix, felt my wand in my hand. Could I have just killed her? Stunned her? I didn't know, half didn't care as I stared at her long enough and the faces of her victims appeared before me in flashes. Someone was shaking me. My eyes flew open and I realised I my breath was coming in ragged gasps.

"I don't know if I can do that," I said as I met Salazar's gaze. "I hate her so much."

His lips pressed together tightly. "Then kill her. Death, you will find, can be a soothing balm. But no dark magic." I stared at him, and he shook me again lightly. "Swear it."

"I told you, I can't," I said with a misery I didn't fully understand.

He released me roughly. "I see," he said with a tone that suggested he didn't see at all.

"What is it going to be this time?" I found myself asking, belatedly wondering if I _did_ have some sort of death wish. "To bed with no supper? Exile to my quarters?"

"No," he said grimly. "This is not some petty, childish offence."

Alarmed, I wondered if I should have lied and given him the oath he'd wanted. Though I wasn't sure that he would believe a direct lie.

"I will relocate your keepers to one of my father's strongholds for questioning," he said. "Because clearly they have done a poor job at protecting you. Where did you learn those spells? From them?"

My eyes widened in dismay. If Lord Slytherin used Veritaserum, and Remus and Sirius weren't warned...even if they didn't reveal my deception, I would have no idea where to find them.

"You can't," I said breathlessly. "They had nothing to do with it. I found those spells myself--"

An urgent banging at the door caught us both by surprise. "Salazar, are you in there?" The muffled voice was Hufflepuff's.

"Yes. What is it?"

"You must come. Your uncle and cousin Davin are here." I suddenly realised that more than the door was muffling Hufflepuff's words. Her voice was thick with unshed tears. "It's--oh! It's Marcus and Lavina, Salazar. They are dead."


	11. The Best Laid Plans

Author: Aedalena  
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.  
_**This chapter:** The long awaited Ministry of Artefacts heist, Salazar-Harry arguments (no chapter is complete without one), loss, Gryffindors, things that aren't what they seem, things that are more than they seem, and a dangerous undertaking.  
Thanks to: Japonica, for continuing to Britpick the story. I'm sure I'll slip up again soon. ;) Also to my LJ friends, who I routinely punish with evil cookies. I do love you and your observations/comments/discussions, truly!

**NULLIFIER  
**_**Chapter Ten: The Best Laid Plans**_

_"Of darkness visible so much be lent, as half to show, half veil, the deep intent." –Alexander Pope_

* * *

"This is it," Pansy Parkinson said, nodding at a deceptively plain-looking wooden storage crate. "I must admit, Granger. I didn't expect us to get past the first set of doors."

To be fair, neither had Hermione. But they had. The "Marauder" style maps had proved extremely useful, and they'd managed to avoid every threat except the two Aurors guarding the building, who were unavoidable anyway. They'd spotted one of the cursed tile detectors floating midair with no one visibly operating it, and one of the Aurors had been quick enough to manage a stunning spell before falling himself. The storage vault had been relatively simple to get to, though its set of double doors had more than compensated by requiring twenty minutes of careful dispelling before they could be opened.

After that, Hermione had sent Shacklebolt and Sanford to watch the building's entrance and left Gregory and Higgins with Katie Bell to guard the stunned sentries. After several minutes of watching Ginny stare knives into Pansy's back as the Slytherin searched for the box that held the Tempus Orb, Hermione had finally sent her friend to guard the entrance to the storage vault.

"This is it?" Hermione drew closer, lighting the tip of her wand to see better in the vast darkness of the vault. She had expected something more...secure. A safe, perhaps, or some kind of bejewelled silver chest with an ominous red glow. "Are you certain?"

Parkinson gave her one of the patented Slytherin sneers that Hermione was convinced they practised for five minutes in front of the mirror before going to bed each night. Harry had once confided to her that he'd tried to learn the sneer, for those things in life that truly warranted one: irredeemable stupidity, unapologetic ignorance, and Snape. Pansy had told him to give it up as hopeless, however, saying he was too much a Gryffindor to sneer properly. Smirk, perhaps, but not sneer.

"You expected something fancy? Gryffindors." She gave a disgusted shake of her head. "Get out that fancy quill of yours and take a look at the protective charms, if you're sceptical. Just be sure you have lots of parchment."

Auror Lancaster regarded her with sudden interest, and Hermione flushed. Pansy must have seen the tracer when Hermione used it on the vault's second door, but how had she known what it was? Hermione patted one of her pockets to make certain the tracer was still there. Technically she wasn't supposed to take the magical device out of the Ministry of Research, but—technically she wasn't supposed to be stealing a priceless magical artefact from the Ministry of Artefacts, either. Even so, it was embarrassing to be caught by a Slytherin in front of an Auror. She hoped that breaking the law wasn't habit-forming.

It would be useful for detecting dangerous spells if they came across an unexpected obstacle, that was how Hermione had justified it to herself when she pocketed the tracer before leaving the Ministry of Research. But her real reason for taking it, she knew, was curiosity.

She wanted to learn what made Tempus Orb work. Imagine, if she could duplicate it! Though she would have to figure out how the spells worked together, knowing the charms used was half the work. Even if she couldn't recreate one of the orbs because the magic required a certain crystal infused with special properties from soaking beneath a waterfall during a solar eclipse in the Year of the Rat or something similarly complex, she would have an idea of how to begin.

"Well?"

"What—? Oh." Hermione hesitated, but did not take the tracer out. "Yes, I believe you."

"Do try not to take the entire night, Parkinson," Auror Lancaster said with an impatient frown, glancing at the pocket watch he'd insisted on bringing. "This heist has been ridiculously uneventful except for the one guard, but time is against us. The longer we linger, the more likely we are to be discovered."

"You think this is simple, Lancaster, you can do it. No? Then be quiet so I can concentrate on not blowing up half the room with us in it. Not that any of you would be a great loss, but I would like to keep my own skin intact."

"Self-preservation is a sentiment I can agree heartily with," the Auror said. He examined Pansy with curiosity. "But if you value it so much, why did you choose not to follow You Know Who?"

Pansy, muttering counterspells under her breath, looked irritated at the distraction. "None of your concern. It doesn't mean I like the ministry any better."

"I have noticed that Death Eaters hunt down traitors. That doesn't worry you?"

"An interrogation? I suppose with so many Aurors swarming about, it was imminent." The Slytherin looked up from her work. "Look, Lancaster, I'm sure Granger appreciates you helping out. She's going to be a lot less appreciative if you distract me and this crate explodes. These are some particularly nasty curses. I should know; I put them here."

Hermione wondered if Lancaster was trying to hint at something. Dumbledore had said to be wary of betrayal, and owled her a list of Aurors she could trust. Lancaster had topped that list. Should she be watching Pansy more carefully? Just to be safe, she resolved to ask Pansy to step away from the box when she was finished and let someone else retrieve the Tempus Orb. She could claim concern for Pansy's continued survival if she objected—not out of any personal worry, which the Slytherin wouldn't trust anyway, but for the pragmatic reason that she wanted to preserve their best curse-breaker.

"You aren't afraid that eventually one of your old friends will catch up with you? I have seen the outcomes of such encounters, and they are seldom pretty."

Pansy's patience seemed nearly spent, Hermione observed. It was time to intervene. "Perhaps you would prefer to watch the door, Lancaster? Since you are so concerned about being caught?"

He glanced at her in surprise, as if just remembering she was there. "I apologise. Sometimes it just slips out—years of habit, I suppose."

Then the room was silent for about ten minutes while Pansy cast countercurses, paused to study the crate some more, and then cast more spells. Her own nerves growing more jittery with each passing minute, Hermione was about to ask Pansy how much more time she needed when the Slytherin scrambled away from the box with an oath. Hermione took a startled step back. The crate began hissing.

"I take it the box shouldn't be doing that?"

"Way to state the blatantly obvious, Granger." Pansy began muttering to herself, "A misfired searing hex? That, or the compressed poisonous mist. What did I do wrong? Was it—oh, that's right, I made a timed delay modification on the mist. Stress on the third syllable then."

She waved her wand, uttering an unfamiliar incantation, and the outline of the box shimmered, melting away to reveal a much smaller container, a golden chest set with red stones.

"Thank you, Pansy," Hermione said grudgingly. Then, to be safe, she turned towards the entrance. "Ginny?"

"Not so fast," Pansy cautioned, holding her arms up when both Hermione and Lancaster pointed their wands at her. She rolled her eyes.

"Nice to know I'm trusted. Wands down. I haven't finished yet. It's an illusion. I chose Gryffindor colours when I cursed the box in honour of those most likely to be fooled by something so obvious," she smirked. "If you tried to open it right now, well...you remember what I said about becoming the vault's new wallpaper."

Hermione lowered her wand, but Lancaster didn't. She frowned at him, and reluctantly, he followed suit. She turned around to call for Ginny again, but she was already behind her, watching Pansy resume work with an intent calm that was almost unnerving. Finally, Pansy stepped back, rubbing her cheek. The golden chest had morphed back into a wooden box, though it was still smaller than before.

"That's the last of them. I will be happy to—"

"No need," Hermione said hastily. "Ginny, would you check the box for anything Pansy might have missed?"

Wordlessly, Ginny took the box and spent a minute casting examining spell after obscure examining spell. Hermione tried not to hover over her, but couldn't help it. She could feel the tingling in her limbs that indicated the invisibility oil would begin wearing off soon.

Ginny picked the small box up and faced Hermione. "Clean. Let's go."

Hermione resisted the urge to check with the tracer, just to be sure.

"We should probably ensure that the box does indeed contain the Tempus Orb," Lancaster suggested.

Hermione nodded at Ginny, pulled out her map, and began writing: _Have Orb, meet in storage vault for Portkey out._ The message would appear on the other maps. It was a pity the charms that linked the parchments were not powerful enough to allow map to map communication greater distances. Perhaps finding alternative charms was something she could get her people to look into later.

"_Avada Kedavra_."

Hermione's head jerked up, and she stared uncomprehendingly as Pansy crumpled to the floor. Lancaster leapt at her. Frozen with momentary shock, she didn't resist as he grabbed her roughly, twisting her right arm behind her and placing her between himself and Ginny, his wand pressed hard against her neck. Ginny swore and reached for her wand, but Lancaster's voice rang out in the sudden stillness.

"Don't, Weasley. Put the wand down, very slowly, good. And now the box, on the floor. Do it, or I'll collect the bounty on your Mudblood friend's head—detached from the rest of her. She's been quite the nuisance these past few years, so don't doubt my eagerness to finish her. Even should I fail to take the orb, her death would make this disgusting role I've had to play half worth it. Step back now, there's a good girl. Further."

Hermione's mind seemed to be moving at half its usual speed. Confusion, shock, and fear fought for control over her thoughts, but confusion won out. Dumbledore had explicitly said in his post that Lancaster could be trusted like a member of the Order, how could he have been so wrong?

Unless, she realised with mounting dismay, the owl had not been from Dumbledore at all. Did Voldemort have a way to intercept owl post now? It was notoriously difficult to do it once, much less with reliable success. If so—that meant that any of the posts she'd sent to the Order could have been watched. He could be watching the entire Order!

The wand pressed deeper into her neck. Hermione permitted herself a wince but didn't dare make any noise that would startle Lancaster. He'd seemed so rational, so courteous. Not a hint of disgust at her "impure" heritage, nothing. Nothing except—of course, that strange interrogation of Pansy. It hadn't been an interrogation at all, but a subtle threat that no one could possibly recognise until it was far too late.

She could see the map where it had fallen on the floor when Lancaster grabbed her. She'd finished half of the message. She could only hope that Shacklebolt and Katie would realise something was wrong and hurry. She didn't know what they could do, or whether they could stun Lancaster before he got off a blasting or killing curse, but she knew one thing: Voldemort must not get the Tempus Orb.

Ginny was still backing away at Lancaster's direction. Finally, he told her to stop. He pulled Hermione with him to the box. She briefly considered struggling, but it would probably only earn her a shove at best and a lethal curse at worst. She would have to wait for the moment when he was most distracted. That moment came when he took his wand from her neck to summon the box. She kicked him in the leg, hard, and twisted. His grip on her arm loosened, and with a sharp pull, she rolled away clumsily. A green light soared over her head, singeing her hair slightly as she dodged behind the nearest crate big enough to provide cover.

Ginny leapt into action, diving for her wand while Lancaster was distracted with Hermione. Hermione could hear the pounding of running footsteps in the hall outside the vault. She felt around for her wand in the gloom, and Ginny was already throwing spells at Lancaster, who blocked them with practised ease. Box under one arm, his other hand slowly reached into his pocket. He withdrew his pocket watch.

Why—? _No_.

"Portkey!" she shouted to Ginny.

Where was her wand? She gave it up as a lost cause and dived for Lancaster's feet. His hand closed over the watch, and he muttered something under his breath as Hermione bore him down. The Portkey activated, and she found herself with an armful of nothing but empty air.

Shacklebolt and Sanfield burst into the room, wands out, Katie Bell and Hermione's researchers trailing right behind. There was an odd shiver in the air, and a high-pitched whine began sounding. Hermione clapped shaking hands to her ears, but it didn't help. Shacklebolt winced, took in the scene, and waved the rest of the group in the room.

"Lancaster was a traitor, killed Pansy, and took the orb," he summarised.

"Yes," Hermione said over the noise, which was growing steadily louder. She felt light-headed and shaky. "How d—"

"No time. The Portkey set off the building's alarms, a typical defence mechanism. That's what we're hearing right now. The wards can detect that someone in the building Portkeyed out, but not where. We have at most three minutes before the Aurors make it to the vault."

Taking a calming breath, Hermione motioned the group over, pulling out her chain Portkey, but Shacklebolt shook his head. "Anti-Portkey wards will be up now. How much longer do we have with the invisibility potion?"

She tried to estimate how much of her body's tingling was due to the oil wearing off and how much was response to having narrowly escaped being killed. "Not long. Twenty minutes for the rest of you, but less for me. Five minutes, and that's my most optimistic guess."

"That will have to suffice. The Aurors will be using detection spells to negate any Disillusionment Charms, should we be foolish enough to cast a spell now that they are likely monitoring wand emissions in the building. Let's move. We can sneak out the entrance and Portkey away once we are past the wards."

"What about Pansy?" Ginny asked suddenly.

Shacklebolt looked regretful. "No time. We'll have to leave her."

"They'll think she stole it, or helped the people who stole it," Ginny pointed out.

"She did," Sanford spoke up. "And why do you care? The whole mission, you were ready to blast her face off."

Ginny opened her mouth and then closed it. "It's wrong," she said finally.

"No time," Shacklebolt said again, more firmly. "They'll assume she was working as a spy for Voldemort all these years, and we won't have to worry about suspicion falling on us. I don't like it either, but—" He gave an apologetic shrug. "She's dead, so she's in no place to complain. Seven invisible people can sneak out, but a floating dead body is going to raise some qfuestions. I'm assuming she's visible now?"

"Yes, I'm afraid the invisibility potion only works on living tissue. We have to hurry, Ginny," Hermione said reluctantly, moving to join the group.

"Higgins was bored, so he found a way to disable one hall of trick steps. We can leave the detectors. Let's go."

Ginny stood from where she had been knelt next to the body and trotted over to the rest of them by the door. Hermione glanced backwards once at Pansy Parkinson, dead and still on the stone floor, eyes wide and staring. Then she followed the group out.

Her first real taste of war. Hermione found it cold. Shacklebolt's reasoning for leaving Pansy's body behind was logical, and Hermione often found logic to be comfort, but not this time. She realised now how sheltered she was, working at the Ministry of Research, and wondered how the Aurors managed fighting on—well, not the front lines, because this wasn't a war with traditional battlefields. But fighting.

_I think that perhaps I understand Harry better,_ Hermione thought as they quietly made their way down a corridor, not daring to use sound-dampening charms.

Oh no, _Harry_. She hadn't even thought about why the Death Eater had stolen the orb.

That must mean they knew Harry had travelled to the past. She remembered the urgency of Dumbledore's request, and it became even more clear. _I thought there might be something you weren't telling me, headmaster. This is it, isn't it. Not that Harry might have stepped into the middle of a war, but that Voldemort might already know._ He _must_ be intercepting Order owls; that was the only explanation.

What about the seven who went back with Harry? Sirius, Remus, and Ron were the only ones Dumbledore had named. She had confirmed herself that they were gone, but that left four others. Could Voldemort have slipped a few Death Eaters into that number? Was that the reason for Dumbledore's worry? She felt a mix of frustration and resignation; couldn't he have just told her? The headmaster's obsession with secrecy had burnt them before.

Shacklebolt halted and abruptly motioned for them to stop. They flattened against a wall as a pair of Aurors appeared round the corner at the end of the corridor. Once the Aurors were past, they resumed their steady crawl.

What would they make of it, the Aurors? Stunned guards, disabled traps. There would be Enquiries, back at the Ministry of Research. How had Death Eaters managed to get past the so-called "smart" traps? She would have to bring up the issue of owl interception, which was actually convenient, because the ministry could "discover" the problem on their own without "interference" from the Order, which they resented.

An activated Portkey. A stolen artefact. A corpse. A falling out among Death Eaters, they would probably conclude. Only eight people would know the truth about a Slytherin who had helped a group of people she cared nothing for, all to repay a debt Harry would never have collected on, but Hermione had in his stead.

_There's your Slytherin scapegoat,_ said the voice of irony in Hermione's head as the entrance came into sight. _Not so amusing now, is it._

* * *

"Refrain from mentioning any relation to me," Salazar said, adding to the unending litany of orders he apparently felt compelled to give as we made our way to the hospital wing, where the bodies of Marcus and Lavina had been taken. "And do not nullify anything. Or speak, unless necessary."

Irritated, I imagined how I might go about breaking all three orders simultaneously. It was still an improvement over the disconcertingly cold-blooded side of him he had revealed in the training room, but if he believed I would listen meekly and obey, he was more rattled than I had thought. Obedience was not one of my character flaws, as I was certain I had demonstrated several times so far. I definitely hadn't been subtle about it, to which many people—though perhaps none so much as that one sentry, Patrick—could attest. I wondered if anyone had found him yet. He should be waking right about now.

"So basically," I summarised, "stand there and blink stupidly."

"No. We will undoubtedly see more than enough of that from Davin," he responded, the name escaping his mouth as a sneer.

I wondered what this Davin fellow had done to evoke such antipathy. "Hufflepuff mentioned him. Who is he?"

"One of Godric's older brothers," Salazar said with no small amount of distaste. "Thicker than an overboiled shrinking potion and only marginally less useless. Godric is the only tolerable Gryffindor because he has at least acquired _some_ Slytherin qualities during the course of our friendship."

My experience was that someone was far more likely to "acquire" a headache from long-term exposure to Salazar than anything else, but I let the comment stand in the interest of self-preservation.

"Stand there, silent, and blink intelligently, then. My quibble is with the 'silent' part. Why do you want me along at all?"

Silence, and then Salazar muttered something about being outnumbered. I decided not to press him. He had barely reacted to Hufflepuff's news—just stiffened, his mouth tightening almost imperceptibly—but now he was acting almost like he'd imbibed a babbling potion, which made me suspect the news had affected him more than he wanted anyone to know. I couldn't be sure if it was because he'd known Marcus and Lavina well, or because he was worried about Godric's reaction to the news. Judging by his comments about the Gryffindor family, probably the latter.

Godric already knew, of course, but that knowledge wouldn't make viewing the bodies any easier. In some ways, it was worse, because it gave you time to imagine what might have happened in those final moments, wonder how much pain they had been in. I hoped, for both his sake and his sister's, that he would be able to keep his composure. Guarding the secret of Morass' letter would be a delicate task once Godric's family discovered that on top of the deaths, Cassandra was missing.

"Okay, I'll accept 'mumble mumble outnumbered' as an answer. But why the secrecy?" I asked. "Don't you trust them? They _are_ family."

I knew from personal experience with my dear relatives the Dursleys that family did not always equate to caring or trust, but despite our mutual dislike, I didn't think the Dursleys would have betrayed me to Voldemort. And if I remembered my history correctly, Pureblood families considered blood ties incredibly important. Then again, history had proved thus far to be just about as accurate as the drivel Trelawney spewed on a daily basis: a handful of serendipitous hits mixed in with the vastly more frequent misses.

"You would not say that if you knew my grandfather," Salazar muttered. His shoulder twitched in a half-shrug. "If only it _were_ that simple, but this is no Muggle war; our enemies are not so easy to identify. Morass is the enemy, yes, and those who follow him. Well and good—but for the fact that he draws those followers from our own people, and not all of them are pleased to run round wearing Morass' colours. It rather inspires paranoia when you cannot be certain if a passing wizard is friend or foe."

"And here I thought it was just an endearing personality quirk of yours," I remarked as a passing student, casting a resentful scowl at Salazar, hurriedly moved out of our path. "You know, I still have no idea what this war is about. What are you fighting over?"

"Over nothing and everything, depending on whom you ask," Salazar said wearily. "Morass promises an end of prejudice to the Muggleborns, power and adventure to hot-headed Trueborns, change to the young wizards, and stability to the old. Each promise empty as the last, but Morass has always been very persuasive. He is an expert at sowing lies and half-truths and reaping discord."

I couldn't decide if I should be amused or disturbed when I realised that the same could be said of me. Though in my defence, I didn't go round doing it on _purpose_. It just...happened.

"He uses every latent tension and unrealised resentment to divide us." A soft, cold breeze stirred sluggishly, though there were no windows nearby. A group of chatting students fell silent as we passed. "Even our allies. Morass has the most uncanny ability to identify those who waver and coax them to his side. We are left with divided friends and divided families, and men kill their own kin." There was something very like hatred in his voice. "No doubt that amuses Morass very much."

I opened my mouth to ask what he meant, but he forestalled me with a shake of his head. "We haven't the time for so lengthy a tale. Perhaps later."

Doubly curious now, I nevertheless moved on to my next question. "How do they all get along? If the Muggleborns are resentful, shouldn't they object to fighting alongside, um—Trueborns? And change and stability are diametrically opposed interests, aren't they? So how does that work?"

"Morass calls it 'the careful dance.' He encourages competition between his factions, and they trip over themselves for his favour. Each is convinced that he will discard the others once the war is won. Fools," he said disgustedly. "Yet it has proven an effective tactic. He takes unskilled, untrained wizards and forges them into quite competent battle mages, though of course not on the level of the Lords. The Council has the advantage of years, often decades, of training."

I digested that, and then returned to my original question. "So, you don't trust them."

Salazar sighed, a frustrated sound. "There is no distracting you, is there? I trust my uncle. He is a member of the Council, though he is not a Champion, and they are nothing if not loyal, if only because they know their fate should Morass win. Davin I could easily see being taken in by Morass' lies. He is hot-headed, impatient for change, and sympathises with the so-called 'plight' of the Muggleborns. An unfortunate Gryffindor tendency, the last."

"Doesn't Godric like Muggles and Muggleborns?" I asked innocently. "But you trust him, I thought."

"Yes, but Godric is—" Salazar hesitated, as though uncertain how to put it into words.

"Your friend?"

"More than that, he knows better."

I rolled my eyes at his back. "He knows better than to try arguing the point with you unless he has a day or two to kill and isn't particularly attached to his vocal cords or ear drums."

"There is no point to argue," Salazar stated. "Muggles are pitiful and pitiable. Muggleborns are contemptible, treacherous, dangerous, and better off ignorant or dead."

I heard an intake of breath on my left. A younger student who had been walking in the opposite direction stared at Salazar with wary eyes as we moved past. Again, Salazar seemed not to notice. I had the feeling the remark would be spread through the whole school by the end of the hour.

I could see where this conversation was headed—yet another argument to heap on top of the half dozen or so _other_ arguments Salazar and I had had thus far. It felt like all we did was argue. And nullify things. Well, and he had brought me that potion, so he apparently cared, but I didn't want to think too much about that right now.

Okay, we didn't _just_ argue, but this was one eccentricity of Salazar's I wouldn't tolerate. It was stupid, and it was dangerous. My mum had been a Muggleborn, Hermione was a Muggleborn. Blood was nothing but an excuse.

"I disagree," I said in the most level voice I could manage.

You would think I had admitted to a secret fondness for the taste of human flesh by the way he stopped so suddenly. He whirled around with an expression of mingled disbelief and outrage that would have been comical were the issue not so serious. "What?"

"I think Muggles are people who get along as best they can without magic," I said, opting for nonchalance. "And Muggleborns are witches and wizards, some skilled and some not, just like Purebloods or Trueborns or whatever you choose to call them."

"Muggles 'get along as best they can'?" he repeated. He looked at me as though genuinely concerned for my sanity. "They oppress and make slaves of one another. Their 'lords' treat their animals better than they treat their vassals. They are endlessly at war, and their violent tendencies are appalling. Do you know how many murders they commit? Rapes and thefts? They are uncivilised, brutish creatures."

I stared at him with an expression that probably mirrored his.

"I don't hate them," he continued. "How can I? It is all they know, all they will ever know. I pity them."

His words recalled Lucius Malfoy's unflappable arrogance, everything Voldemort had ever said to incite violence against Muggles and Muggleborns. It felt like being doused with a pail of cold water. With ice in it. And then having the empty pail thrown at you.

Salazar was very different than how he was described by historians. Arrogant, yes. Condescending, definitely. Rather cold, and certainly cunning. But the villain I had been expecting joked with me, scolded me, argued with me, and even tried to save me from myself, which was impossible, but I could appreciate the effort.

And then there were these glimpses, like back in the training room, of the Salazar Slytherin from the history books. This hatred was strong and personal and very intense. His words aside, it didn't show in his voice so much as his bearing. Salazar was not what I would describe as the most expressive of men, but he had his little gestures. A small wave of one hand, a half-lifted shoulder, a raised brow.

Now, nothing. He was blank and still when he spoke about Muggles and Muggleborns, as though discussing them took every ounce of his concentration, and nothing was left for anything else. "_Do you? Doubt?_"

I found myself wondering just how powerful this hatred was. It because of it, I assumed, that he first started his foray into dark magic, though I could be mistaken. I thought about Bellatrix and how dearly I wanted justice or revenge or whatever label you wanted to slap on it. But that was different. I knew Bellatrix's crimes, knew that she was responsible. Salazar had no such excuse. He condemned all Muggles and Muggleborns, innocent and guilty alike. By his thinking, both my mum and Hermione deserved to die.

"That's a load of—rubbish," I snapped. "Are you a Seer, then? Can you read the future?"

"I hardly need to. It is obvious that Muggles—"

"How are we so different?" I interrupted. "Last I checked, we were in a war, too. Guess what? By my time, we're in yet another war! Godric's brother and his wife were murdered. Hm, murder, wasn't that on your list? Sounds violent to me. Friends killing friends?"

"We have known peace for more than two centuries. What Muggle sovereignty could say the same? As for the murders—I would suspect Marcus and Lavina were murdered by their own vassals."

"Vassals?" Sodding Binns, I couldn't remember _anything _about the wizarding world during the founders' era. Was the tenth century wizarding Britain a feudalistic society?

"It is common practise among those magical families so inclined to gather as many Muggles under their protection as their lands can support. Idealistic foolishness. They think that Muggles can be civilised."

"And of course you are such an authority on the subject of Muggles," I said sarcastically. "Spent a lot of time among them, have you?"

"I have known a few Muggles, yes. But Muggles, corrupt as they are, are harmless compared to Muggleborns. All that ignorance, that immense capacity for violence, given power to express itself."

"Oh, yes. Of course I've seen _so many_ twelve year old Muggleborns duelling in the corridors. Enormous capacity for violence!"

"You have been here for a mere four days, perhaps one third of them spent conscious. You have had little time to observe student behaviour," Salazar said with infuriating logic. "Nearly every duel or fight I have dealt with has involved a Muggleborn."

"Of course this wouldn't have any connection to the anti-Muggleborn attitude you cultivate in students of your house," I said sarcastically. "Maybe if you treated them like they were part of this world too, they wouldn't feel the _need_ to fight. If you think they're so criminal, _teach_ them wizarding ideals."

Salazar shook his head. "We cannot undo a decade's worth of damage. Violence is already inherent in their blood, and they grow up surrounded by it. Perhaps if they were reared by Trueborn wizards that might be overcome, but they are not. We only have six months each year in which to teach them right and wrong, but this school was built for teaching magic, not morals."

"Overexaggeration _and_ generalisation," I said. "The glaring faults in your argument. I know a Muggleborn who went to this school, and she is one of my best friends. She's not violent or ignorant or corrupt. She's smart, caring, and probably more law-abiding than any other witch or wizard I know. Almost all of the Muggleborns I know are pretty decent."

An awkward silence met this statement, and I could almost feel Salazar grappling with what I'd said, trying to find some way that "Muggleborn" could occupy the same sentence as the word "friend," much less directly precede it.

"I am not certain I understand," he said finally.

"Probably not." Out of the corner of my eye I could see a witch watching us, and I thought I recognised her as the girl from the gardens. Reluctant to give the students still more reason to hate Salazar, though I was half beginning to think he deserved it, I started walking again to get us out of range. "If you think that somehow you'll be able to convince me Muggleborns are 'evil' or 'corrupt' or what-have-you, let me give you some advice: you won't."

"This discussion isn't finished," Salazar warned as he moved to follow.

"Let me know in the unlikely event that you're willing to listen, and we can have another go at it," I replied.

"Your naivety in regards to Muggleborns and dark magic is appalling and furthermore, dangerous," he countered. "And by your own admission, you are guilty of that which you claim I am, an unwillingness to listen."

We turned a corner and entered a familiar part of Hogwarts. We were perhaps two minutes from the hospital wing; not nearly enough time for a drawn out debate on prejudice against Muggleborns, though I suspected that Hermione would've done her best to condense her arguments to fit were she in my place.

"Ah, but look at who I have as a role model," I sniped, looking pointedly at him.

He let out a sigh through clenched teeth. "I am asking you to learn from my mistakes, not repeat them, though you seem determined to do just that."

"I can take care of myself," I insisted.

"Morass?"

"Um. That was perhaps—"

"Nullifying yourself nearly into unconsciousness?"

"How was I supposed to know th—"

"Nearly tearing a hole in the wards? Using dark magic?"

"Well, it all turned out fine. Morass failed, my head's better, the wards are...repairing, and I haven't murdered anyone yet 'under the influence,' despite countless opportunities and excuses to do so. If I find myself in a bad situation, I inevitably find a way out of it. Good luck balances the bad."

"It is foolish to rely on it. Unlike bad luck, good luck runs out."

"I don't _rely_ on it. It helps, but it's not a crutch. I can get by without it, and I've survived well enough without your help."

There was an odd look on his face. "That does not preclude you from accepting it."

We turned another corner and the hospital wing came into view. Staring at the door, Salazar seemed to have forgotten about the conversation completely. He took a breath. Then he opened the door, and I followed him in. Ravenclaw was speaking to two wizards. One had dark brown hair streaked liberally with grey, cut much shorter than most of the styles I'd seen so far. He looked very old and tired, though he couldn't have been much older than Lord Slytherin. Godric's father, I assumed. The bed he sat beside was occupied by a pale man who looked like he was asleep.

I watched his chest, and it didn't rise or fall. Dead. Marcus.

The other wizard had brown hair like the corpse, several shades lighter than their father's. He glanced at the door as we entered the room, and his lip curled when he saw Salazar. Then he noticed me behind Salazar, and his unfriendly expression was diluted slightly by confusion.

"Salazar," he said flatly, though he looked at me as he said it.

"Davin." The coolly polite reply caused him to abandon his scrutiny of me to lock gazes with Salazar.

They were trying to out-menace one another. I fought the urge to cover my eyes in exasperation. Fortunately, Ravenclaw spoke before either of them could launch into any kind of sparring—verbal, physical, magical.

"Good, you're here."

"Rowena." Salazar nodded a greeting to her. Then he took another deep breath, and, ignoring the unrelentingly hostile scowl Davin directed at him, made his way to his uncle. "I grieve for your loss, my lord. I—Marcus—" He seemed at a loss for words. "He was patient with me when I was a sullen child and opened his home to me in later years when few others would have. I did not know Lavina as well, but she was always kind to me."

"Salazar." The older wizard acknowledged him with a hoarse voice but didn't look away from the bed. He brushed back a light brown lock of hair from his son's forehead. "I knew I could expect some manner of attack eventually, but there is no way to prepare oneself for something like this. Not in my worst of nightmares did I envision this."

"What happened?"

"Your damned war," Davin spat. "That is what happened."

"Salazar's war?" I found myself leaping to Salazar's defence, affecting surprise. "Why, his very own war, fancy that. And a damned one, no less. I suppose the countless people who have died to stop Morass from spreading whatever twisted vision he has—it couldn't possibly be _their_ war."

Both Salazar and Godric's brother glared at me, though I assumed for different reasons. I chose to look at Salazar, meeting his displeased stare without apology.

"And who in Merlin's name are you?"

Salazar's irritation turned quickly to wariness as I dragged out the silence. He needed to learn that I didn't take orders.

"I'm Harry. Salazar's...apprentice." I had the feeling I gave Salazar a mild heart attack with that smallest of pauses. Davin seemed to accept the explanation with only a little suspicion, studying me one last time with a tiny frown, and then shrugging.

"Should he be here?" Davin demanded, ignoring me now that he knew for certain I had a connection to Salazar. "This is a family matter." He sounded as though it pained him to include Salazar in that group.

I could see that Salazar now regretted bringing me along. For a moment, he looked tempted to send me away, if only for his peace of mind, but his unwillingness to do anything that might be interpreted as giving ground to his cousin proved stronger.

"He will stay."

Salazar gave me a stare that read: _and he will be silent_. I stared back, unimpressed, and he gave up, focussing on his cousin instead. Davin opened his mouth to protest, and Salazar watched him with an alert readiness, as if waiting for an excuse to strike. Davin gripped his wand; Salazar raised an eyebrow. There was a dull buzz in the air that I couldn't immediately identify, though it felt slightly familiar.

"The manor was destroyed," Ravenclaw said, answering the—by now—all but forgotten question. "Obliterated. Some of the Muggles are still searching the rubble for bodies."

I looked at Marcus' corpse again. There was no apparent bruising—or any damage at all, for that matter. Then I noticed the bed next to him. It too was occupied, but the body was covered up completely. Lavina?

"Then why is Marcus—?"

"We were hoping you might be able to tell us."

Salazar moved closer to the body and closed his eyes in concentration, but he glanced up when the door opened again to admit Helga and Godric. Godric looked from his brother to his father to the body on the bed, and his shoulders dropped slightly. Salazar shifted, as though uncertain if he should go to him, but Godric shook his head minutely, his face desperately stoic.

He went hesitantly to his father, who stood and engulfed him in a powerful embrace. Gryffindor pulled away with a look of concern when his son didn't respond, but Godric didn't seem to notice, staring at his brother's body as if he expected it to rise up at any moment. Then there was resignation in his eyes. The dead body in front of him was undeniable proof—Morass hadn't lied.

"What happened?" he asked quietly, echoing Salazar's earlier question.

"Someone attacked the manor," Davin said, glaring at Salazar when he gave a disbelieving laugh. "We don't know for certain that it was Morass or one of his supporters. In any case, the destruction must have occurred from the inside, because the wards would have—"

"Done nothing," Salazar interrupted, "if Morass decided to nullify them."

"They were still intact," Lord Gryffindor said. "And we would have known, had he tried."

Godric shook his head. "I don't understand..."

"I should think it obvious," Salazar said bitterly. "Your brother employed a large retinue of Muggles to maintain his estate. I would suspect one of them let Morass in."

"You've always been quick to assume, Salazar." Davin crossed his arms. "It could have been anyone. All Marcus would have had to do was allow access to a seemingly friendly visitor."

"Which is more likely—that your brother would be lacking enough in both intelligence and common sense to allow stranger access to his home in a time of war, or that one of his _already trusted_ servants betrayed him?"

Davin's arms uncrossed and for a moment, it seemed as though he was going to reach for his wand. He looked tense with anger barely held in check. "You can't get through one day without insulting my family, even the dead."

"I have done no such thing. _You_ insult him with your assertion that he would risk his family's safety in such a manner."

Davin's hand twitched and then closed in a fist. "Is your own suspicion any better? You see guilt where you want to, as usual."

Salazar stood and faced Davin. "With good reason. I have seen it before, far too many times."

The other wizard barked a short laugh. "Well, you don't exactly inspire loyalty, do you?"

"That is enough," Godric snapped. "This is no time for another one of your squabbles." He was still staring at the body, and looking uneasy now. "If the manor was demolished, why wasn't Marcus crushed? Where's Lavina?"

He reached for the sheet covering the other body, but his father intercepted his hand. "No, Godric."

Godric shook his head. "I don't understand. Salazar...?"

Salazar leaned over the body, closing his eyes again. His face was tellingly blank when he opened them. He glanced at Godric, then away, and seemed reluctant to speak. "Wandless magic. It must have been; his magic is entirely depleted. He must have used it to push the rubble away from him and maintain some sort of air flow, which explains why there are no visible injuries—but to have held that much weight for so many hours..." He shook his head. "He died of magical exhaustion. When he died, his death spell maintained the space around him, I would guess. Those who found the body would know for certain."

Godric had gone very pale. "How long has he been dead?"

Salazar looked even more reluctant. "Godric..."

"By how many hours were we too late?" he demanded.

He and Salazar locked gazes, and it was like watching a silent struggle of wills.

"Perhaps as few as three, or as many as eight," Salazar finally acceded.

"You are certain?" Godric whispered. He closed his eyes tightly, looking sick. "Damn Morass. That bastard—_he knew_."

Cruel _and_ efficient, combining strategy and torture—Voldemort was nowhere near Morass' level. He didn't have the imagination. The note from Morass had implied that Marcus and Lavina were already dead at the time it was penned—possibly Morass had assumed so, viewing the wreckage. But it was far more likely that he had lied, knowing the acute guilt and self-loathing Godric would feel when he discovered that by telling no one and by not verifying the letter's words, he had condemned his brother to a slow, torturous death, alone and waiting hopelessly for a rescue that would never come.

There was nothing I could say to him in his own defence that wouldn't give us away.

Davin and Lord Gryffindor didn't appear to notice Godric's last remark, but by the sudden, suspicious curiosity in his eyes, it seemed that Salazar had. Before he could request an explanation, the door swung open hard enough to crash into the wall. A tall, brown-haired woman who looked a bit like Lady Slytherin rushed in. She was out of breath, as though she'd ran the whole way to the hospital wing, and her face was a terrible mask of shock.

"She's gone, Geoffrey," she said numbly, seeming beyond grief. "My mother said she left early this morning to visit Marcus and Lavina."

"No," Gryffindor breathed, gripping his chair to support him as he rose to his feet. "We did not think to ask the Muggles to search for—"

"I sent Mathias," she said, her eyes riveting on her son's bed. "Geoffrey—"

"I must tell my father," Salazar interrupted urgently. "It would be too like Morass to attack when you are least able to defend yourselves. He can gather a group of Lords to ward the area until you are finished searching."

"Go," Lady Gryffindor said, fear dissolving some of her shock. "Quickly, he has not been there long."

Salazar nodded and hurried out, leaving me alone with the grieving Gryffindors, feeling like an unwelcome intruder.

"Emmeline," Gryffindor said softly.

She ignored him and her other sons and walked over to Marcus. She looked as though she wanted to touch him but was afraid to, afraid that to do so would make it real. Then, unwittingly mimicking her husband's actions earlier, she smoothed his fringe back. She flinched slightly at the cold touch of his skin.

"I counted myself blessed above all others, Geoffrey," she said, her gaze not leaving Marcus, "that while I watched countless friends grieve for their fallen sons, I never had to suffer the loss of one of my own children."

"We knew this day might come. Your sister and her family—"

"I do not blame Alviva, and I certainly don't blame Salazar or Warin," she said calmly. But when she spoke again, her voice started to shake. "I know that this is war and that there are losses, and that compared to some, this is nothing. But he is my son, and now he is dead."

Godric watched her with a complicated blend of emotions—bitter self-loathing, guilt, and frighteningly intense resolve. Lady Gryffindor turned away from the bed at last and I saw that she was crying now, silently.

"Godric, Davin," she whispered, and gathered her two sons to her in a tight hug. "You are grown, and I know that you are strong wizards, but I have never been so terrified for you. Godric, you must promise me you will stay safely within these walls. Davin, please let your father send a few of the Council to reinforce your wards. Don't trust the post, if Cassie—" Her voice failed her.

Godric stepped back looking like he wanted to spill the truth to ease her fear, but then he saw me, and seemed to master that impulse. He reached out instead and took his mother's hand.

"I will be careful," he said, and the phrasing bothered me, because it sounded evasive, like something I might say.

Lady Gryffindor nodded mutely and released her other son, who seemed less angry now and more something else. Lord Gryffindor pulled her close, and she began sobbing freely, the sound loud and harsh in the room's oppressive silence. Godric watched them for a moment, and then rested his gaze on his dead brother. Guilt resurfaced, but it was quickly followed by a smouldering rage.

"That bastard," he said again, more to himself. His eyes hardened. "Please excuse me."

Davin didn't seem to hear, and Lord Gryffindor nodded gently. Godric checked his pocket for something and left the room with cat-like silence. I was rooted with uncertainty. Follow, or stay here? I already felt like an intruder in the midst of this private moment, but Godric hadn't looked in the mood for company.

I noticed that Helga and Rowena, who had also done their best to fade into the background, looked equally uncomfortable. Helga had busied herself with straightening already-straight covers on the unoccupied beds and Rowena was alphabetising one of the potions shelves. Neither of them had taken note of Godric's abrupt departure. I suddenly wished that Salazar hadn't gone.

But he had. Well, I thought, at least that meant there was no one to stop me whatever I chose. Then I wondered with a chill if that was what Godric had thought too. I hastily excused myself with an nearly inaudible apology and slipped away with all the stealth I could muster. I didn't think Ravenclaw had noticed, but erring on the side of caution, I broke into a run as soon as I made it past the doorframe. When I felt reasonably confident no one was pursuing, I withdrew my wand and laid it flat on my palm.

"_Point me_ Godric Gryffindor."

It took me two minutes of sprinting past bewildered students—I should think they would have been used to it by now—to catch up. Had this been an unfamiliar part of the castle, I would probably not have managed to find him. When I did, Godric was so intent on whatever course of action he had chosen that he failed to notice me until I cleared my throat.

He whirled with unnerving speed, a spell on his tongue, and I just managed to duck under a radiant golden light. Godric stared at me as I straightened. "Oh."

"Oh?" I repeated.

"I hadn't thought anyone would follow," he explained.

"Never mind that, what about nearly taking my head off?"

Godric blinked. "Oh. It was only a stunning spell. One of the nastier ones I picked up from Salazar, but it wouldn't have harmed you much."

I needed to start a list. What people picked up from long exposure to Salazar: Slytherin traits, nasty headaches, stunning spells of dubious morality, and second-hand paranoia.

"Ah, good. I feel much better now." The sarcasm seemed to slide right off Godric. Merlin, he looked out of it, even worse than he had in the gardens. "Um, you want to talk about it?"

Godric tensed, and air crackled with an indistinct magical tension I was beginning to recognise as unfocussed wandless magic. "No, I don't think that would be wise right now."

"Okay," I said cautiously. The air cleared. "So, where are we headed?"

"We? I think not. If we managed to survive, I don't even want to think about what Salazar would do to me for letting you follow me somewhere dangerous."

If we managed to survive. Sounded like a quest for revenge to me. Well, at least I would get a bit more practise at it.

"Easily solved. Tell me where you want to go, and _you_ can follow _me_." Godric didn't seem particularly impressed with that logic. I sighed and tried another tack. "Do you think he's going to be all that pleased with you running off on some mad revenge spree?" _Trust me_, I wanted to add. _I've already had the lecture, and Salazar can be _extremely_ overbearing._

"Of course not, but that doesn't matter," he said, gripping his wand more tightly. "You are intent on coming along?"

"Revenge, huh?" I said, ignoring the question. "I hadn't pinned you for the type."

"And you are an expert on such matters?"

I thought about my botched attempt on Bellatrix and grimaced. "Not really. But I do have experience."

"Merlin, he 'has experience' with vengeance at the ancient age of twenty-three," Godric muttered, for an instant sounding like his usual self. "It is dangerous."

"Dangerous" was my first seven years at Hogwarts. This would be a pleasant little holiday next to that. "Danger is not a problem," I assured him.

"This is no game."

"Of course it is," I argued. "But I choose to play, rather than be played."

"Slytherins," he sighed, looking more at ease. Then he seemed to recall one Slytherin in particular. "You _can't_. He'll kill us both."

I noticed the appraising way he was looking at me, guessed his thoughts, and shook my head. "You're not fast enough, Godric. Not last time, and not this time."

"You took me by surprise last time. That will not happen again," he warned. Then he sighed, appearing simultaneously resigned and relieved. "Then you are determined."

"Well, obviously I won't go if you decide not to," I said.

A dangerous anger flashed in his eyes, and my nullifying senses began detecting another build-up of magic in the air. "I must do this."

If he could see his face, he'd understand why I was so adamant about accompanying him. "Then you'll need me: as back-up, as a cool head, as a good luck piece, as a sneaky Slytherin bastard, whichever."

Godric regarded me with confusion. "I don't understand," he confessed frankly. "Talking to me in Helga's garden, demanding to help with Cassie, and now this. Why are you helping me?"

That simple question wreaked quite a lot of havoc on my thoughts. As I considered it, I had one of those odd epiphanies that creep up on you when you least expect them, smile apologetically, and proceed to gently smash your worldview to pieces while you wonder what the hell had just happened. Yes, I wanted to help Godric because, oddly, he reminded me of a younger version of myself, though he was probably a decade older than me, but that wasn't what had grasped my world with two hands and shook it to see what would fall loose.

I wanted to help because I cared. About Godric, about Hogwarts, about—don't think it!—Salazar, and even—to a much lesser extent, admittedly—about amateur psychologist Hufflepuff and the ever-suspicious Ravenclaw.

It was hopeless. I'd been here a mere four days, and already I was beginning to feel at home, like I belonged. Bloody stupid mistake to make, I thought bitterly, since I would have to give this all up in three days. Give it all up, burn my bridges and demolish all the surrounding trees for good measure and hope no one had a broomstick, and then go fulfil my "duty" to save the future. Survival would be an unexpected bonus.

But, a part of me asked, didn't the past need me too?

"Someone has to save you from your surname," I said, because it was the only safe thing I could think to say. "What's the plan?"

"I haven't thought that far ahead," Godric admitted.

That didn't surprise me given haste of his departure and the roiling maelstrom of anger and guilt that seemed to rule his actions presently. I was glad now that I had decided to follow him out of the hospital wing. Especially, I thought with a frown, because the whole situation felt...off somehow. As if there was more to this than a double murder and a kidnapping and a blackmail. Okay, so that was quite enough by itself, and yet...

Well, I didn't see any other options right now. None that I was willing to entertain, particularly since the vast majority of them involved meeting an irate and suspicious Ravenclaw or an overprotective Salazar just after having given them the slip. Again. Last time I did that, they'd bludgeoned me over the head for my transgression.

"Who are we after and how do you know he's involved with the murders?" I asked.

"Delis Senegal," Godric said distantly, his attention elsewhere as he spoke. "Pureblood faction. His speciality is stoneworking magic. While such a talent is usually employed for building, it is just as suited to destruction. He would be the one responsible for the carnage at my brother's home. He is high in Morass' favour currently."

"And you know where he is?"

The question brought him back from the dark realm of his thoughts, and he studied me for a moment. Then he smiled faintly. "No. But here I _do_ have a plan. Do you remember your rather startlingly realistic impersonation of Salazar yesterday?"

I nodded.

"Are you up to a repeat performance?"

I visualised Salazar waiting for us at the gates of Hogwarts upon our return, and did my best to channel the cold, rigidly contained menace he radiated so effortlessly. I gave Godric one of the disconcerting half-smiles Salazar had directed at the fuming Davin.

"We are no doubt about to embark on a foolishly Gryffindor enterprise, but I will protect you from your stupidity to the best of my ability, daunting though the task may be," I said, trying to get the tone just right: a mixture of arrogance, scepticism, and concern.

Godric blinked and then grinned at me, a wolfish grin that combined amusement and hunger for vengeance. "Perfect."


	12. Subterfuge

Author: Aedalena  
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.  
_**This chapter:** Rowena's having a bad day. Come to think of it, so is Salazar. And--well, everyone, really. A simple quest for vengeance rapidly spirals out of control, threatening to take everyone else with it. Reading _"The Founders: Pieces of Life_" (accessible from my author page) will provide a bit of interesting (and entertaining) background for this chapter, but it is by no means required in order to understand what's going on.

**NULLIFIER  
Chapter Eleven: Subterfuge**

"_Half the work that is done in this world is to make things appear what they are not." –E. R. Beadle_

* * *

Rowena Ravenclaw could not recall later what promptfed her to glance up from the criminally unorganised potions she had been absorbed with properly categorising, just that it took her a full five seconds to react that terrible moment when she did. Ironic; she generally thought of herself as intelligent, cool-headed, and observant. And then she would do something so fundamentally careless and stupid that she disgustedly wondered how she had ever presumed to claim any of those three attributes as hers.

Right now, for example. She was so observant that both Godric and Harry had managed to leave without her noticing a bloody thing. How long ago, she was afraid to even ponder. Where had her mind _been?_

Her first thought, as she fought down her burgeoning horror, was not that this confirmed her suspicion Harry was a plant, oddly enough, but rather that Salazar would not be best pleased by her negligence. Livid, more probably.

However, it was her second thought, followed closely by: _trap_.

She cleared her throat quietly to avoid alarming the Gryffindors, and Helga looked up from the bed she was currently fussing over. Rowena jerked her head to indicate the place where Harry had stood mere minutes before, and felt a perhaps unworthy vindication when her friend's eyes widened in surprise.

Rowena knew what his absence meant...except that she didn't, entirely. Which described fairly accurately just about everything she thought she knew about "Harry Bigglestaff Evans." He was a complicated mess of contradictions that was slowly driving her mad.

_"I'm not asking you to trust him. I'm asking you to trust my father, and trust my instincts."_

_"It simply isn't possible for someone to be so maddening and _not_ be a Slytherin!"_

_"Rowena, let it be."_

Salazar, Godric, Helga—they had for reasons unfathomable let themselves be charmed by the boy, ignoring or dismissing her misgivings. Rowena had even begun to doubt herself, wondering if perhaps she had been mistaken, but she could not forget the peculiar look on Harry's face earlier. _"Good,"_ he had said. "_A little suspicion is good."_

Guilt, perhaps? Now he was gone, and Godric with him. Betrayal, it had to be. A revelation of his true loyalties at last. But why _now_? Why Godric and not Salazar? Then again, she thought with an involuntary wince, Morass didn't need Salazar to be physically present to torture him, not if he had Godric. Torture by proxy would be just as bad—perhaps worse.

The four of them were all very close, but Godric and Salazar were another matter entirely—the two had been all but inseparable since childhood, despite their constant bickering. Perhaps even because of it—Rowena had never been certain which it was. They were more brothers than cousins. Or what brothers ought to be, she amended, thinking of Davin and—sometimes—Tobias.

Morass was more than aware of it, too. He knew Salazar's weaknesses better than anyone else, Rowena suspected. Even them. She hadn't liked him when he was a friend of the Slytherin family, and even less during his infrequent visits to the unfinished castle before the war, when Salazar was the only Slytherin who would tolerate his presence.

Oh, she remembered those days, wondered how they had failed to recognise the danger then. Remembered the half-mocking smile in his eyes and the courteous nod directed at her on the few occasions she was unable to avoid passing him in the corridors. Remembered how withdrawn Salazar always was once he left. The unmistakable animosity between Morass and Illaria. Helga—who could find common ground to discuss with a _mountain troll_—wouldn't converse with him, not after a few early attempts in private that she still refused to discuss with Rowena. Godric's ill-masked discomfort, his hurt when Salazar spent the next few weeks avoiding him.

Divide and conquer. He had not been their enemy then, and Salazar might have even counted as a friend, twisted though that friendship had been. But that early, he had been studying them, assessing their strengths and probing for vulnerabilities.

It was almost as though Morass had known that the final battlefield would be the broken down old castle the four friends had united to repair and expand into a school, before he even knew there would be a war. That or nature was inordinately fond of circles. _Where it began, let it end..._

He was putting his knowledge to use now: Salazar's old wounds, Godric's impulsiveness, Helga's sympathy—all ripe grounds for a trap in the form of a certain "time traveller."

She should have remained vigilant. She had let her friends' complacency lull her, and now Harry—Evans—_whoever_ he was—was gone and Godric with him. Foolish, trusting Godric... The blame rested on her, and none too lightly at that. It was an unspoken agreement among the three older founders that they would do their best to curb their youngest friend's worrisome tendency towards recklessness. Rowena had failed in that as well. If she knew Morass, she knew that it was already too late. Harry could have taken Godric anywhere by now.

She fought down her self-recrimination; it was unproductive and distracting and would avail no one, least of all Godric, who would need her to be thinking clearly. She caught Helga's eye again and motioned discreetly at the door. Helga held up a hand, and Rowena had to bite back an impatient snarl as Helga made her way over slowly.

"I know what you must be thinking," she murmured quietly, "but—"

"No. If you knew, we would be already be gone. _He was a trap_!" Rowena hissed back.

"Listen to me, Rowena. I spoke to him, and—"

"Which part of the word 'trap' do you fail to understand?" she demanded, grabbing Helga's sleeve and trying to pull her to the door. "Since it is only one syllable, it's impossible for me to break it down any smaller for you, but I can spell it out: yes, you spoke to him, and no doubt he said exactly what you wished to hear. We have been played by a skilled musician indeed, and Godric is likely paying for our misplaced trust as we waste time discussing this!"

Helga resisted her dragging, freeing her sleeve with a yank. "Why do you immediately assume the worst? He and Harry might both have retired to their quarters. Or be talking. Harry has known loss as well, and Godric might—"

"Even _if_ Harry isn't a spy, recall who else we are discussing. Godric. Might I remind you that _last_ time we thought he just wanted some solitude—after Julian had Aethrin killed—it was _thirty hours_ before we saw him again."

The mere memory made her wince. Godric had all but collapsed at the front gates, bloody and wild and exhausted, while Salazar had done his very best not to murder him then and there, once his initial relief had passed, with the sword Godric had left behind. And then they had seen the Chalipris stone, its glow dimmed and its magic spent, and none of them had let him out of their sight for weeks after.

"But he—"

"Thirty hours I spent explaining to Salazar that no, he couldn't leave the castle to search for him," Rowena continued over Helga's feeble attempt at rebuttal. "Thirty hours of doing everything up to and including physically restraining him from doing just that! Have _you _ever been locked in a room alone, for hours, with a furious and thwarted Salazar? No! You are the sympathetic one, while I am always the villain. He would not speak to me for a month, and only then because Godric _did_ make it back!"

Granted, Salazar was often refusing to speak to her for one reason or another, but that had been the worst. Usually, she could goad him into breaking his silence within days, but that time, he had stubbornly held on to his anger with her, convinced that he could have found Godric. No one could hold a grudge like a Slytherin.

Her voice must have risen by the end of her tirade, she belatedly realised. Davin was watching them. Chagrined at her loss of composure, Rowena cleared her throat and addressed the Gryffindors. "My apologies. Helga and I have a matter we must discuss. Please excuse us."

As she dragged the now-unresisting Helga outside, doubt crept into her thoughts and chipped away at her surety. _Could_ Godric have left of his own accord? It certainly would not be the first time. But then what of Harry? What about him seemed to warp logic and reason beyond all recognition? Why did he refuse to make _sense_?

Davin followed them out, stopping at the door. "Is something amiss?"

_Your brother, or hadn't you noticed?_ No, there was no reason to alert the family yet. Instead, Rowena turned upon him the full force of one of her poisonous smiles that she reserved for occasions just like this, when she wanted to be rid of someone without being explicitly rude. Even someone who so richly deserved it.

"I appreciate that you are concerned, Davin, but it is an internal affair."

There. The words were polite; her tone, scrupulously diplomatic, but Davin took a small step back. A wise decision on his part; she didn't have the patience to tolerate him in her current mood. _Smarmy, self-righteous bastard_.

She loathed his habit of insulting Salazar at every turn, and had found herself biting her tongue more than once today as she listened to him. When he blamed Salazar for his brother's death, she had actually found herself inwardly cheering at Harry for his quick retort, despite her continuing doubts about his loyalties. While she'd hesitated to risk escalating the argument, he hadn't so much as blinked.

Though of course it must have been part of the act.

Davin looked like he was still considering prying. Rowena narrowed her eyes, and he seemed to suddenly decide otherwise. Executing a polite half-bow, he re-entered the hospital wing, leaving her and Helga alone. _Cool-headed_, Rowena reminded herself, _you are the cool-headed one_. Then, taking a breath, she tapped into the castle's wards, ignoring for now the weak patch Salazar and Helga had yet to explain, examining them for altered permissions. She found one—Godric had lowered the block on Harry leaving.

Too late. Despite her angry surety earlier, this confirmation of her greatest fear was like a physical blow. They were too late.

"He's gone, Helga," she heard herself say as her spirit plummeted somewhere far beneath the lowest levels of the castle, only vaguely noticing her friend blanch.

"Who is gone?" a familiar voice asked from behind her.

Oh.

* * *

The Council Lord that Godric had selected for interrogation would have done better to slam the door in our faces and bolt it securely upon seeing who we were. In fact, he seemed to be considering doing just that at first, but unfortunately—for him—decided not to.

I bolted the door behind us and opened with a battery of bold, shameless lies about our reason for visiting. I must have been quite convincing, because Godric began shooting worried, questioning glances at me from behind the Lord, as though half afraid I was a twice-disguised Salazar. Meanwhile, the Council Lord listened with a detached horror, as if he couldn't quite believe he had really let us in of his own volition.

Thus warmed up, I began the interrogation.

Clearly I had missed my life's calling. By the time I finished with him, the wizard had divulged everything we ever wanted to know about Delis Senegal and quite a few things we didn't. The temperature he preferred his bath water, for one—a tidbit of information whose origin I wisely chose not to ponder. The Council Lord had also been...persuaded to part with the Councfil's only Portkey to Senegal's stronghold. By my count, this had required six raised eyebrows, two disdainful headshakes, one pointedly cleared throat, three dubious stares, and one very powerful glower that had actually made the man pale and stutter out apologies.

Bearing such a close resemblance to Salazar was almost fun, now that Morass wasn't waiting in the shadows to ambush me. Or so I hoped. I hadn't even needed any illusion charms, just the night's gloom, a heavy-duty hair-straightening charm, and a bit of creative transfiguration on my robes.

I felt a bit sorry for what would happen to him when the _real_ Salazar arrived—assuming neither the remaining founders nor his father were able to restrain him—and discovered that the Lord had not only fallen for the ruse, but he had, in addition, enabled us to continue.

We didn't linger after getting what we needed. As we walked out to the boundary of the wards, I heard the sound of one bolt, and then another, and another clicking into place behind us. Followed by a half dozen protective charms, and two powerful warding spells that repelled me very firmly when I probed at the door with my nullifying senses. The knife in my head, which had been relatively inobtrusive up till now, twisted in protest. I half-heartedly pushed the pain aside.

"It was the glower," Godric commented, noticing my wince. "You do that rather well."

"Lots of practise." I lifted up the heavy silver leaf that hummed with the energies of a Portkey. "Would you like to do the honours?"

He stared at it for a moment, and then took the Portkey, curling his hand around it tightly, forming a white-knuckled fist. He spoke the activating word, and the tugging sensation I doubted I would ever grow accustomed to dragged us away from the small Council fortress and deposited us...elsewhere.

"_This_ is the place?" I whispered to Godric once I'd recovered enough from the Portkey to notice our surroudings.

I had to crane my neck to take in the looming stone structure before us, and I was fervently grateful then for the cover of darkness that shrouded us from view of anyone inside. The main structure was aggressively square, with four equally square towers jutting out from each corner, fully twenty metres high. Flickering light from innumerable torches danced in the windows, and I felt a hysterical sense of unreality. When I had decided to accompany Godric, I hadn't expected a two-man assault of a giant, bleeding _keep_.

"You heard what Lord Wilham said. It is guarded by thirty men at most," he replied reassuringly. "Perhaps five of them wizards. Getting in undetected will be our greatest obstacle."

"Getting in? Never mind that! How about getting _out_?"

"Senegal will provide the only real challenge," Godric said, his voice gone ugly. "Once he is taken care of, the rest will be simple."

"Ah, the old 'take it as it goes' type plan," I muttered. "Classic. Classic _idiocy_. Right up there with 'maybe they won't see us if we stand very still' and 'let's see what they do if we—'"

"You might feel better to know that I have done this before," Godric interrupted. "Alone, against slightly greater odds, and I survived."

He sounded quite proud of that. I stared at him. "I think that just tells me that you're mad. No, worse than that: _consistently_ mad, since you're eager to do it again."

"And yet you are still here, so I suppose I'm not alone in my insanity," he said without breaking his intent study of the fortress. After a while, he spoke again. "I can think of no other way in but through the door. You?"

I nodded reluctant agreement, forgetting that the fmovement was probably difficult to see in the dark. Even if we had broomsticks—and they would be damned uncomfortable broomsticks in this era before Quidditch—the windows were too small for either of us to fit through, and there were no convenient balconies. Sure, we could probably blast a great bloody hole in one of the walls, but doing that to the fortress inhabited by wizard specialising in stone-working magic struck me somehow as imprudent.

I reached out with my nullifying senses to examine the huge door, which was not only extremely heavy, but twice my height. There were suspiciously few defensive spells on it. I said as much to Godric, who shrugged wordlessly.

"The Council just discovered the location of this place yesterday?" I mused, recalling the part of our interrogation of the thoroughly intimidated Council Lord that had bothered me the most. "I think it's time I don my suspicious bastard hat and point out that the more we see of this place, the more it feels like a trap. I know the door isn't literally wide open, but there are few enough protective wards on it that it might as well be."

"Harry, _I_ didn't even know I would be here tonight. How could anyone else?" In the dim light from the half moon, I could see Godric narrow his eyes at the keep. A warning hum began to build up in the air. "Don't ask me to turn back. Senegal killed my brother in the cruellest manner he could devise. My family's talent for wandless magic is well known; either he or Morass _must_ have—"

"I'm not asking you to do anything. Calm down before you give us away," I commanded, channelling Salazar again. Successfully, because the magical tension eased.

"I know," Godric said tightly, "but it is quite difficult."

I glanced at him, and observed that rage was giving way to guilt again. I withheld a worried sigh. He'd been like this the last half hour, swinging between one and the other like a pendulum. I didn't even want to think about what might have happened had I not chased after him. I looked up at the door again and did sigh this time.

"So much for slipping in unnoticed. Oh well, since when do I let the fact that something's a phenomenally bad idea stop me?" I drew my wand. "Let's do this before my sense of self-preservation realises what's happening and starts screaming."

* * *

Rowena closed her eyes briefly to affirm that this was indeed happening to her. When the world didn't dissolve like a nightmare should, she finally turned to face Salazar and his father. Dressed in combat robes, Lord Slytherin looked run more ragged than usual. The robes were charred in several places and his hair was in wild disarray. Salazar must have called him away from some skirmish—the six month respite or lull of action or whatever one wanted to call it must have ended with the attack on the Gryffindors.

She tried to project an aura of serenity rather than overwhelming guilt. "Salazar. Lord Slytherin. My lord, please go on in without us. Salazar...we need to have words."

Lord Slytherin nodded brusquely and entered the hospital wing, closing the door behind him. Salazar looked from her to Helga, and Rowena tried to swallow her dread so that she could speak. She met Helga's gaze beseechingly, but her friend looked just as reluctant to speak.

"You mentioned words?" Salazar prompted.

"Yes," she said, marshalling her courage. "Salazar, after you left...Helga and I wanted to give Godric's family some semblance of privacy. To that end, we busied ourselves with tidying up the room—you know how I am, I absolutely cannot abide carelessness in the organisation of potions, which, as you know, can be incredibly dangerous should expediency be required in the treatment of—" She cut herself off. Dear Merlin, she was babbling already.

Salazar regarded her with a mystified expression. "Would it be overly optimistic of me to assume that somewhere in that extended string of nonsense lies, cleverly disguised, a point?"

While Rowena flailed for a response, Helga abandoned diplomacy for once and spoke bluntly but carefully. "While you were gone, Godric excused himself and left."

Often it was the absence of emotion rather than its presence that indicated what Salazar was feeling—and at Helga's words, his face blanked.

"Excused himself," he repeated.

"He just said that he needed a moment to himself," Helga said soothingly, as though to a rabid animal about to lunge for someone's throat.

She usually reserved that tone of voice for brawling students, and Rowena knew that normally Salazar would have snapped at her for trying it on him, but this time, he didn't even seem to notice.

"A moment to himself. How long ago?"

"Well, ah, perhaps..." Helga didn't seem to know how to respond to Salazar's non-reaction. "Right after you left."

"Right after I left."

The mechanical way he kept repeating her words should have been irritating. Instead, it was extremely unnerving.

"Yes," Rowena confirmed, though it had not been a question.

"Fifteen minutes," he said quietly, drawing his wand. "I leave for _fifteen minutes_."

At the sight of his wand, Helga held both hands up in a quelling gesture. "Salazar...we can't be certain th—"

"Godric asked for a moment alone," Salazafr began with that same unnatural calm. "After his brother and sister-by-marriage were murdered and it was revealed that his sister may have been as well. _And you let him go_?"

It wasn't a shout. Slytherins didn't shout, not in the conventional sense. When Salazar wanted to shout, he spoke in a low, whisper-hiss that was infinitely more terrifying. Rowena reflected that it probably wouldn't be prudent to reveal now that she hadn't even been aware of Godric's departure herself until minutes before, and therefore _couldn't _have stopped him.

"We shouldn't always assume that he's gone off to do something rash," Helga said, with her usual persistence. "It's not fair to Godric. He could very well be safe in his chamber, and wouldn't we feel silly for—"

"Assume? Is his surname _Gryffindor_ or isn't it?" Salazar visibly restrained himself before reaching into his robes and pulling out a heavy golden locket. He tapped it with his wand twice and spoke Godric's name. When nothing happened, he touched his wand to it again and spoke an incantation. Whatever he had expected to happen didn't, and Salazar's grip tightened on his wand as he spoke into the locket. "Godric? If you are ignoring me, so help me, I will—" He stopped himself, and traced an unfamiliar symbol on the surface of the locket.

A bright flash filled the corridor. Rowena shielded her eyes, and when the blinding light dimmed, she could see a familiar sword on the ground, balanced on its tip—Godric's sword. To her knowledge, it had never done so before. It was enchanted to allow Salazar and Godric to communicate to a limited extent, not do—whatever it was presently doing.

Helga tapped it with one finger. The simple touch seemed to disrupt whatever magic holding it up, and it clattered to the floor with a hollow, ghostly clang that echoed down the corridor and made Rowena flinch. Salazar stared at the fallen sword like it was a death omen. As they watched, it flickered and faded away.

"What does it mean?" Rowena asked, inexplicably spooked and trying to hide it.

"It—means that Godric is beyond the sword's reach. It should have—I can think of few explanations for such a phenomenon, none of them good." Salazar bent down, brushing his fingers over the patch of floor where the sword had lain. Then he straightened and tucked the locket away in his robes. "Careless, impetuous, hot-headed, reckless _fool_. Where could he—? Senegal. The destruction at Rivenwood bears his mark. But he can't know where to find him; not even the Council has been able to locate his fortress—" His narrowed his eyes at the door to the hospital wing. "There is no help for it. My father must be informed."

Knowing Salazar, had he known where to find Senegal, she and Helga would be stunned by now, and he'd be gone, Lord Slytherin none the wiser. She opened her mouth to explain that the situation was even worse than he might fear, that Harry was gone as well and more probably than not a spy, but he had already opened the door and stalked in. Wincing in anticipation of his reaction when he noticed Harry's absence, Rowena followed quickly, Helga behind her.

Lord Slytherin, who was speaking to the distraught Gryffindors, glanced in their direction as they entered but kept talking. "...wards should have—well, we will have time to investigate that mystery later. I have dispatched two battle wizards to Rivenwood to ward the area and aid in the search. They will contact me when it is safe to join them."

"Only two?" Geoffrey asked, looking up sharply. "That will not be enough to repel an attack."

"Which is why they were given strict instructions to apparate away if Morass attempts anything before we arrive. They will see to it that Mathias does the same, should he be tempted to do anything rash."

"Warin—"

"Rivenwood is a ruin, Geoffrey," Slytherin said bluntlyf. "Morass has little reason to return, if indeed he carried out its destruction personally. Even were that not so, we are unable to spare any more Council wizards."

Salazar's frustration was expertly masked from all but those who knew him well. Rowena could tell that he was hesitant to say anything in front of Geoffrey and Emmeline, but that looked to be a fleeting hesitation. By some miracle, he appeared to have forgotten entirely about Harry in his worry for Godric.

"Unable to spare...? You can't mean—he has taken up the offensive again?"

"Rivenwood was only one of many attacks Morass launched today. The Valeruns, the Morgesterns...the Cottonthistles in particular suffered many casualties. Champion Cottonthistle has withdrawn from the conflict—a foolish response at best, but not, regrettably, unprecedented." He absently brushed some of the soot from his robes. "We've reports of raids on five towns so far, with more almost certain to come."

"Where was the Council during these attacks?" Emmeline demanded. "How could this have happened? How could the balance have tipped so swiftly in Morass' favour?"

"We were fending off an assault on Windham Castle. A distraction, albeit a convincing one, we realised too late," Lord Slytherin said with marked patience. "As to your second question—Morass possesses the advantage of mobility; he always has. He can move his encampments, relocate if whispers of an impending Council attack reach him. As we lack that luxury, he has had years to study our defences while denying us the same."

Rowena was still reeling at Lord Slytherin's first revelation—the second was old news to anyone following the war. An attack on Windham? That Morass felt confident enough to attack the very seat of the Council of Lords as a mere distraction had staggering implications. His inactivity the past few months had convinced many that his momentum was slowing and there had been signs that his support was waning, if gossip among the children was any indication. Clearly that had been his aim all along, to present himself as weakening, while quietly building up power. While this display hadn't fooled the Council, neither had they expected him to have grown so much in strength.

Furthermore, their perpetual lack of intelligence regarding Morass' forces was unlikely to be remedied any time soon. It was particularly difficult to gauge Morass' strength because he had no stronghold, though some of his allies did. He moved from tower to forest to cavern in the space of a year, seeming to delight in leaving behind heavily trapped camps once he abandoned them. Rowena had helped dismantle several sites herself in the opening years of the war, when she had still been carrying out her obligations as a member of the Council.

Emmeline rubbed at her eyes in a gesture of utter weariness. "Warin—I apologise. It was not my intention to lay blame...it is simply—after so long, we had begun to hope—"

"That is one self-delusion no one can risk," Slytherin stated. "Morass will never give up. As enemies go, we could not have found one more implacable or capable. Had we but known—"

A sound like wind rattling the branches of dead trees interrupted him, and he reached into a pocket, pulling out a polished stone that was glowing a faint orange. When he tapped it with his wand, the noise quieted. He peered into the stone and then put it away. "The area is secured for now. Come."

"Davin, perhaps you should remain here. The search must be almost over by now," Geoffrey said, failing to hide the dread in his voice of finding another dead child in the rubble. "It would be better not to tempt Morass with so many targets at such a vulnerable location."

Davin, who had been astonishingly quiet during the conversation considering his usual inability to restrain himself when Salazar was in the same room, nodded curtly.

Salazar shifted, and the slight movement caught Lord Slytherin's attention. "Father—"

"_No_, Salazar," he interrupted with a fierce glower that made Rowena straighten involuntarily, though it hadn't been directed at her. "Your presence at Rivenwood is not necessary."

"I would not be fool enough to ask such a thing of my warden," Salazar said tightly, his seething impatience beginning to show enough that Davin regarded him with sudden interest. "I merely require a moment of your time, my lord."

He placed a subtle emphasis on the title, which marked it as a message rather than his usual expression of displeasure with his father, and Lord Slytherin gave an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgement. "Geoffrey, Emmeline. I will meet you at the front gates." Nodding numbly, the two elder Gryffindors left. Lord Slytherin seemed to realise that this would still leave Davin. "Davin, you will accompany them as far as the gates."

"Uncle, I would not leave my brother's body—" Davin protested, but there was a sharp curiosity in his eyes as he spoke that suggested this was not his sole reason for wishing to stay.

Lord Slytherin stared at his nephew, rather like a jeweller searching for faults in a gem, and Davin flushed slightly under that penetrating gaze. "I fear you misunderstood me, Davin. That was not a question; it was a command."

Stiffly, Davin bowed. "Yes, my lord Champion."

Amusement penetrated through Rowena's worry as she noted how careful Davin was to keep his tone respectful. There were few things in the world he feared more than his uncle—understandable, since there were many wizards who feared him, with good reason—though he seemed merely contemptuous of the rest of the Slytherin family and sometimes even his own. Shoulders set, more with bravado than bravery, Davin made his retreat.

Salazar waited until the door closed before erecting sound wards. After he finished, he wasted no time. "We must act swiftly. Godric has gone after Senegal."

It took a second for Slytherin to react. "Of _course,_ I should have realised..." He released a frustrated sigh and pulled out the stone again, tapping another sequence with his wand.

The grim look on his face made Rowena's stomach flop. "What?"

"I could make no sense of it," he said, making one final tap before putting the communication stone away. "The feint at Windham, the sudden renewal of attacks, the utter annihilation of the Rivenwood manor—Morass far prefers to take live hostages, but he must have realised... And the timing on the information we received is just a little too convenient..."

"Father," Salazar said, his patience now so brittle that Rowena was afraid it would snap at any moment, "as you explain, kindly take into account that not all of us are privy to sensitive Council intelligence—and that we are wasting time."

Instead of taking offence at his son's clipped words, Lord Slytherin regarded him with something like understanding. "Last night, we caught one of Thaddeus' operatives attempting to penetrate the defences of Lord Calumbri's home. The wards woke Cerres, and he caught the man himself. As it is very unusual for Thaddeus to set any of his men to so impossible a task, I assumed it was either part of a brilliant plan that I lacked the wit to see or, when the attacks followed, another feint."

"No, don't tell me," Salazar said, his hand clenching around his wand again. "This man happened to have some vital information."

Lord Slytherin nodded. "The location of Senegal's fortress, which we have been actively seeking for months to no avail. Not only that, but he also had what seems to be a working Portkey to the location."

"And he didn't use that Portkey to escape?"

"Cerres stunned him before he was aware that he'd been discovered. Or he was never meant to use it."

Salazar was silent for a moment, and then he spoke very softly. "Where is he now?"

"Cerres?"

"Don't be obtuse."

"I am not being obtuse, because I know that you surely could not have expected an answer to the only other possible question."

The air thickened somehow, seemed to press inward. Lord Slytherin stood supremely calm, watching Salazar with knowing eyes—knowing, but stern and unyielding. Rowena looked from one to the other, unable to restrain a flutter of unease. She honestly wasn't sure who would prove stronger. Salazar's energy was all coiled tightly, tensed to unwind at any moment, and she didn't know what would set it off, though she had her suspicions. But Lord Slytherin had weathered many of his son's rages.

A deceptively soft breeze rustled a stack of parchments on a nearby table.

"This was a trap," Salazar said very quietly. "Every overly elegant nuance of it reeks of Morass. A trap that I suspect would have failed had he not wooed Fortune herself over to his side today. Perhaps it is too late now, but perhaps it isn't. If so, every minute we spend here arguing takes us one minute closer to the end of the war."

The breeze was no longer soft—or a breeze.

"The war is not my first concern."

Salazar's mouth twisted into a bitterly ironic smile. "No? But we practically _are_ the war."

Lord Slytherin did not bother to argue with that statement. "You will stay here. I shall personally conduct the assault on Senegal's fortress, you have my word, but you cannot accompany us. Drawing you out is precisely what Morass hopes to accomplish. And if I may be cold-blooded—we cannot risk you. You are our only nullifier."

The wind died, and it suddenly felt like all of the air had vanished from the room. All at once, the torches died. Rowena tried to take a breath and couldn't. Then the nothingness began, paradoxically, to thicken and press in, building into a crushing force. Salazar's winds were often the only other gauge they had of what he was feeling, but this was nothing that she had witnessed before. It wasn't even wind, it was—it was an _implosion_.

"No," Salazar whispered into that black silence. "I'm not."

Helga lifted her wand, dimly illuminating the room with a nonverbal Lumos. Lord Slytherin waved a hand, his gaze not leaving Salazar, and a powerful gust tore through the room and out an open window, taking the heavy stillness with it. Rowena was able to breathe again and heard Helga take in a relieved breath as well as she relit the torches, but Salazar didn't seem to have noticed anything at all. He turned very slowly to face her.

"Rowena. Where is Harry?" he asked with great care—suggesting that it was only with considerable effort that he could manage that much without exploding.

"I don't know," Rowena said, refusing to shrink under that terrible, roiling calm. "But someone lifted the block we set up to prevent him from leaving. If it wasn't you, and it was neither Helga nor me..."

"Lady Helga," Lord Slytherin said, drawing his wand slowly. "Please report to Champion Gerard at Windham and inform him of this new development. Tell him to assemble a raiding force. Twelve battle wizards at least; the number of shielding wizards will be up to his discretion, but he is to be advised that speed is of the essence and that this takes priority over all other engagements. I will be along shortly to take command."

Helga looked from Rowena to Salazar, clearly reluctant to leave, but she dropped a small curtsey and left without a word. Rowena kept still, locked in place by Salazar's horrible, unrelenting stare. But it was the bleakness behind it, rather than the depthless fury, that transfixed her. She remembered his frantic searching for Illaria, and she wondered if part of him was reliving those sleepless days now, his failure to find the slightest trace of her.

"Salazar, I'm sorry," she managed through a suddenly tight throat. "I should have been watching, but we _couldn't _have known—"

"It's Godric. You should have known. And now Harry..." Salazar's glanced at his father and tensed, as though preparing for an argument—or a battle—but his gaze slid to rest on the cupboard Rowena had been reorganising. His face darkened briefly, and then he relaxed, addressing his father. "Geoffrey and Emmeline will be wondering what keeps you. Rowena can act as escort in your stead."

His indirect dismissal of her stung, but she accepted it as no more than what she deserved. She should raise her doubts about Harry, point out that they could be making a terrible mistake...but one look at Salazar robbed her of her ability to speak. She nodded and left, burning with guilt and worry—for Salazar now, as much as Godric.

It wasn't until she and the Gryffindors had arrived at Rivenwood that she thought to wonder why Salazar had changed his mind so swiftly about pursuing an argument—and why he had been so eager to be rid of her.

* * *

We dismantled the protective spells with ridiculous ease. Two guards were waiting for us just inside, but they could only have been regarded as "opposition" in the broadest definition of the term—Godric had both down before my wand was even aimed. As we entered, the muffling heaviness of anti-apparation wards settled over us, wards sewn into the very stones of the fortress, I discovered when I probed them. The vaguely claustrophobic feeling grew slightly worse as we went deeper into the keep, and I felt uneasy, confined. It was clear that the door would be the sole way out. Ours was a one-way Portkey.

Godric's plan was beginning to look less and less viable. I mean, I was a Gryffindor, too. I could admire the straight approach when the situation called for it because sometimes it did quite well slicing through fancy, intricate set-ups. But I didn't like what I'd seen of Morass so far. To carry his analogy of war as a dance: we were probably stepping into his ballroom right now.

We followed the main corridor, which was long and sparsely lit. No opposition. Yet. No alerts raised by the dispelled wards on the door. No patrolling guards. We entered what I assumed was the grand hall, but aside from a large table in the centre and several chairs around it, the room seemed empty. The shadows were a bit dark to tell for certain.

This was too easy.

If something looked too good to be true, felt too good to be true, and all but bludgeoned you over the head in its zeal to convince you how fortunate you were to have stopped by at _just_ the right moment... Well, it was time to start ducking, because something was about to hit the fan, and it wasn't a refreshingly cool breeze.

It was only due to this slightly paranoid hyperawareness that I caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of my eye. I turned just in time to see a blue light flash and come barrelling towards us. I darted in front of Godric and caught the spell in my hand. I flung the recycled magic back, and something wooden exploded in a satisfying shower of splinters that bounced off the shielding charm I'd cast with my wand hand. There was a shriek of pain that burbled off.

I quickly located cover behind a thick pillar, and when I checked on Godric, saw that he'd done the same. When no other curses followed, I peeked round cautiously. A mass of burning wood smoked across the room, yielding enough light to see by. There was a body beside it. Well, that was one wizard down. Out of five? This might not be too difficult, then.

Two spells streaked through the air, perhaps to remind me that Fate lived to mock those who made foolish assumptions. I jerked my head back hastily. Red, I noted, as the glow faded into the gloom. Stunners now.

I caught Godric's eye, and made a sweeping motion with my hand, indicating the room. Then I pointed at myself and arranged my hand in the blocking position I favoured for nullifying. I felt a bit stupid as I did so, but he seemed to understand what I was trying to say. He nodded, and, making sure he could see my fingers, I counted down.

Three.

There was a shuffling sound as our assailants moved. Godric adjusted his grip on his wand, body tensed to spring.

Two.

More quiet movement from across the room. I took a quiet breath, trying to place the wizards by sound alone.

One.

I leapt up and was almost immediately fired upon. I threw up a block, which stopped one spell and collapsed under the second. Two more spells followed, and this time I didn't bother with the block. I caught both of them, one in each hand, and threw the nullified magic back. One wizard was too slow—or too surprised—to dodge the beam entirely, and he fell with a scream that cut off almost before it began. The smell of burnt flesh filled the air. I withheld a shudder. Some people didn't realise that nullifying can be dangerous, mistakenly believing that our powers were primarily defensive.

For the most part, they were. But those that weren't...really, really weren't.

The other wizard dodged the spell, and then stafred at me, wide-eyed. "Bleeding pits of hell—! _Salazar Slytherin_."

He concluded, wisely, that retreat would be his best course of action. Not bothering to cast any more offensive spells at me, he backed towards one of the room's four exits. The move surprised me at first, but it shouldn't have.

In the future, wizards had long since forgotten the tactics needed to fight a nullifier. Even by the time I'd left, the Death Eaters had only just begun to develop effective strategies to fight me—namely wearing me down with overwhelming numbers.

But this wasn't the future. Here, nullifiers were perfectly natural and apparently came in batches of twelve, till I'd arrived and made it a baker's dozen. This wizard knew better than to feed me magic that would enable me to burn him to a crisp. He focussed instead on blocking my attacks long enough to escape or wait upon reinforcements.

I moved after him, firing off spells that instantly met blocks. Cast, block, cast, block. He must have been very good at blocks, because my offensive spells were "overly enthusiastic," as Remus put it once. Cast, block, cast. Rhythmic, repetitive, _ineffectual_. Bugger, he was almost out. Once he reached the corridor, he'd have the advantage of home turf, and I might lose him. He would be able to alert everyone to the fact that they were facing a nullifier. And then, I would be the one at a disadvantage—I hadn't before faced anyone with real experience fighting nullifiers.

I gave up on stunners. Sparing only the barest sliver of a second to wonder where the hell Godric was and why he hadn't entered the fight, I aimed a blast of fire just in front of the wizard's feet, which his shield didn't block. His concentration faltered, and my follow-up spell had almost reached him by the time he recast his block. I was already running, though, and he gave a surprised _ooof!_ as I tackled him to the ground. I drew back, and levelled another stunner right at his chest. This one hit point-blank, and he was out.

_Should have done that in the first place,_ I reproached myself as I stood and looked about for Godric. He was nowhere in sight. Fighting back worry, I returned to the pillars we had taken refuge behind, training my wand on the archway leading to the corridor. A few seconds later, Godric appeared in the archway, and I just barely managed to twitch my wand down to release the stunner at the floor instead of him.

"Where have you _been_?" I snapped, remembering only at the last second to lower my voice.

He pointed behind him, and I looked around the wall, down the corridor. Three wizards were sprawled across the floor, two of them still breathing; I wasn't sure about the third. Godric wasn't even winded; in fact, he looked a lot better than he'd been all day.

"They were going to attack us from behind," he explained, studying them. He frowned slightly, looking...disappointed? "Rather lacking in stealth, and they were clearly not prepared to respond in any swift manner to surprises."

"We're here to attack them, not critique their battle tactics." I checked the corridor one more time, and then stepped out into it. "Come on, we need to keep moving."

"Wait." Godric went from wizard to wizard, tapping each with his wand and murmuring something that didn't sound like Latin, which answered any question I might have had about how the orb's translation spells worked. Purely Old English to English and vice versa.

He did the same to the wizard I had stunned, and then returned. I sifted through the information about the fortress' layout we'd gleaned from interrogating the Council Lord, trying to remember what he'd said about stairs. Left. I thought. Hopefully. Godric nodded in affirmation, and we made our way quietly in that direction.

"What did you do to them?"

"A useful spell that Rowena created. Blocks all magical and non-magical attempts to revive someone who is stunned. Works for several hours, and they'll have a nasty headache when they do wake." He looked particularly satisfied about that last part.

"Good thinking."

Well, this confirmed it: _trap_. Those six wizards had clearly been waiting for us—but how had they known we were coming? The Council Lord? I entertained the notion only briefly and then dismissed it. Not enough warning, and he'd appeared genuinely cowed by my act.

It had to have been Morass or this Senegal fellow. A trap tailored specifically to Godric—lure him here and catch him while his reason was overpowered by his anger. It might have worked if I hadn't come along. But then why the letter? Was that only a back-up plan if this didn't work? Or was _this _the back-up plan? Were Gryffindors so skilled at wandless magic that he could have counted on Marcus managing to squeeze a few more hours out of life, the resulting guilt pushing Godric into taking action?

And why rely on a sneak attack like this when they could have a dozen wizards lying in wait for us to open the door?

Dances were supposed to hurt your feet, not your head.

Enough. I needed to think. What would they do now? No, better to think about what they expected _us_ to do. Senegal probably expected Godric to have come alone, and with good reason. Had Salazar guessed what he was planning, it would've been an immediate _stupefy_ and a long nap for Godric until Salazar could get him properly trussed up and thrown into the Chamber to keep Sirius and Remus company.

Furthermore, despite Godric's current volatility, it was unlikely that Senegal would underestimate someone who'd done this kind of thing before—successfully. The sensible thing for Godric to do would be—well, find a way out, but that was the reasonable thing to do, not the Gryffindor thing. That left sneaking around, picking off the guards one at a time, setting up some kind of position or find a room with plenty of room to manuoevre. I remembered Salazar and Ravenclaw discussing how quick with a wand Godric was.

The bad guys were assuming Godric would carry out his attack in a way that made sense. And that he would be alone. Well, he wasn't. And we wouldn't.

I smiled, widely. "I have a plan."

I'm not sure just what it is about my smiles that the founders find so frightening—Godric looked slightly persecuted. "Another plan?"

Another plan? From the way he said it, you would think the last one had been a failure of hither-to unseen proportions. Which it _hadn't_.

"This is a trap for you," I said, generously sparing him my indignant ire. I waited until he nodded with a tiny, rueful grimace. "And they'll be looking for...you."

He nodded again, warily. "Go on."

"How are your glamourie charms?"

* * *

Being stunned was not an experience Patrick Calunod enjoyed, especially since he was among the unlucky few who were particularly sensitive to the spell. It meant that he stayed down longer, took longer to recover, and woke with a headache that was often worse than those typically following a night of drunken carousing, without the small consolation that at least he deserved it.

This made twice in two days, all because of bloody "stun you with a smile," "count to three with me and say goodnight" Harry "Evans." When his true identity had been disclosed to Patrick by Salazar Slytherin, he'd felt a distinct lack of surprise. Nor had he been surprised to have guarding him added to his list of duties. Disgruntled, certainly, but not surprised. There was no job more universally hated and desperately avoided than guarding a Slytherin, unless it was the only slightly more dangerous task of guarding a Gryffindor, so it was only natural that he be assigned both.

He had already failed twice. The first time, he had escaped with only a curt reprimand from Salazar. He'd hardly believed his luck—usually a failure of such magnitude would be reported to Lord Slytherin, the Council's most powerful—and intimidating—Champion and the man who had first assigned the protection of Hogwarts to Patrick.

That was his official duty, to which end he cooperated with the masters of the school. But as long as Salazar Slytherin stayed within its walls, the school was safe. If the castle's wards ever did fall, there was actually quite little Patrick could do to defend the school. His true purpose was to ensure that Salazar remained within the school. To do that, he had to keep Godric in, because where one went, the other inevitably followed.

It now looked like Salazar wasn't the only one who would follow. Apparently any sodding Slytherin fell prey to that particular insanity—he hadn't even had time to report his second failure yet, and now, right on its heels, came the third.

Upon waking from his latest stunning, he'd merely sat on the floor for several minutes, dazed by the pain, as he recovered. At first he thought he must have fallen back asleep and into a nightmare, because then he had heard an all too familiar voice almost right outside the closed door of the room he'd been dumped in: Harry...Evans...Slytherin—whatever combination of the three. Arguing with Godric Gryffindor. No, _conspiring_.

When he realised just what it was they were considering, he had almost stopped breathing, and that was all that kept him from voicing his dismayed groan. Two suicidal lunatics out for revenge...two suicidal lunatics out for revenge who he was sworn to protect from all harm, which apparently included his charges themselves.

Staring at the door, paralysed with dread and indecision, his mind raced furiously. His duty was to stun them where they stood. Unfortunately, the odds of him successfully navigating the five or so steps to the door were only slightly better than him surviving the inevitable report to Slytherin—either of them—if he failed.

Current lack of control of his own body aside, there was the fact that Godric had no equal as a dueller to consider. And he'd done so well against Evans that his pride would be years recovering.

No, he decided. Any attempt to stop them would lead to him being stunned again, which would prevent him from reporting to Slytherin.

As soon as they departed, he fought to his feet and went in search of one of the headmasters. After failing at that for nearly ten minutes, he located one of his fellow battle wizards, Henry, who directed him to the hospital wing—and warned him that _both_ Salazar and Lord Slytherin were there, neither in a good temper.

The door to the hospital wing had never looked so menacing, and he now almost wished he'd chosen oblivion over rationality.

If he had harboured any hope of surviving his report, it was now shredded into tiny pieces and scattered on the wind. Failing spectacularly in his duty was bad enough without having to make his report alone, trapped in a room with two Slytherins. _Yes, Master Slytherin, I fear that I have failed to prevent your cousin and your son from rushing off to get themselves killed or captured._

He hesitated, and decided that knocking would only prolong the torment. Straightening his shoulders, he opened the door and prayed that against all odds, his end would be quick.

His first clue that worse was still to come was the fact that Salazar Slytherin actually looked pleased to see him. Terrified beyond measure now, he turned to Lord Slytherin instead, whose expression at least didn't immediately make him want to flee the room.

"My lord, Godric and Harry are—"

"Gone," the younger Slytherin interrupted. "Yes."

"They have left the school to—"

"Seek revenge upon Senegal."

Patrick dropped his gaze to the floor. He sometimes suspected that Lord Slytherin could read minds, but Salazar had never given him that impression. He heard that eye contact was needed, but he hadn't even been _looking_—

He could feel Salazar staring at him. "We already know. How do you?"

"I overheard them in the corridor," he said, still steadfastly refusing to look at his interrogator, bracing for the inevitable outburst—

—which didn't come. He dared a glance up, and saw the Salazar had simply nodded. "Did you hear anything that might aid us in ascertaining their current whereabouts?"

Hardly believing his reversal of fortune, he reviewed the conversation in his head and shook his head. "No, I simply came to report—"

"Drink this."

Startled by the abrupt change of subject, Patrick mutely took the small phial held out to him, his short-lived elation rapidly fading. It was a light cerulean, and for all he knew, it could be poison for his failures. Lord Slytherin's father had been infamous for his skill at brewing poisons, and while he was reasonably sure that Lord Slytherin wouldn't poison him, Salazar was another question entirely.

Lord Slytherin spoke at last, though not to him. "Salazar..."

"If we don't test it on him, you will assume I have tampered with the potion to render it ineffective."

Through his bewilderment, Patrick could see that Lord Slytherin looked unusually conflicted. Unusual in that he almost always looked threatening, annoyed, or murderous and it was such a departure from normality that he began to suspect again that this _was_ a dream. Nightmare.

"You leave me with no other choice, save duelling you into insensibility myself," Lord Slytherin said finally. He turned to Patrick. "This is a sleeping draught. It will last for half a day. While I will not order you to drink this—"

"It is strongly advised," Salazar finished, with fa smile that bore little resemblance to the real thing, suggesting instead that by "strongly advised" he meant "necessary if you would prefer not to die in screaming agony the moment we are alone."

Patrick swirled the potion nervously, gazing into the liquid to escape that smile. He could think of worse fates, he thought, trying to be optimistic but feeling resigned instead. An extended nap was a comparatively light punishment.

"If it will aid you," he said woodenly. "I will drifnk it."

How Salazar taking a sleeping draught would be of any use was the real question, but unfortunate experience had taught Patrick that asking questions of the Slytherin family often led to answers one would sleep better at night not knowing.

Lord Slytherin intervened, catching Patrick's hand halfway to his mouth. "Salazar—"

"Harry and Godric need your help _now_. I know you will refuse to leave until you are certain I won't seek them myself, but time does not wait for us as we tarry. I'm not pleased that I must render myself unconscious to put your worry at rest, but if that is the greatest contribution I can make to ensuring their safe return, then I will drink the potion."

Though Lord Slytherin released his wrist, Patrick kept his hand frozen in position, afraid to offend either Slytherin by lowering it or completing the motion.

"Such accommodating obedience has never been a trait of yours, Salazar, so you will perhaps understand my scepticism."

"I wish to protect my family. Is this somehow difficult to comprehend?"

"Shall I ask you the same?" Lord Slytherin countered. Then he smiled, the expression devoid of amusement. "Do you think me a fool? That was a poor attempt at deflection, Salazar." The room was deathly silent, and Slytherin spoke again, intently. "Tell me. Why do you cooperate this time? I have yet to leave and already I feel the need to glance behind me."

A gust of wind rose up, and the torchlight flickered. Clearly, Salazar was unhappy with the direction this conversation was taking. Patrick tried to remain calm, but he had heard the rumours about the Slytherin wind. It was said that several generations back, a minor air deity had—for reasons unfathomable discounting acute masochism—fallen in love with a Slytherin and assumed human form to be with him. The descendants of that union had inherited power over one domain of the unpredictable elemental magics: air. Or so the legends went.

"This would not be the first time I reconsidered my position on a matter of import."

The remark was cryptic enough to escape Patrick's understanding, but it must have meant something to Lord Slytherin, because he fixed Salazar with a hard stare that Patrick couldn't read.

"The raid force will be assembled by now, but you are not yet there to lead them," Salazar continued, his wand arm noticeably tense at his side. "Every _minute_ matters. I have tried to be patient and reasonable, since I thought those the only options left to me if Godric and Harry are to have any chance. I thought to save time. I am beginning to feel that I have made a mistake."

The wind intensified as he spoke, and two nearby torches gave out under the onslaught. An opposing wind rose up—stronger. Both father and son were standing, straight and tense, and Patrick suddenly realised that both of them were one motion away from duelling stance.

Oh dear Merlin. Patrick drew his wand with his other hand, but was at a loss as to what he might accomplish. There were stories of what happened when Slytherins were angry. Most wizards shouted or threw things, like normal folk. With magic, if you were a Gryffindor. But not Slytherins. Slytherins bloody blew things up. Old Aulus Slytherin had supposedly destroyed an entire village so utterly in a rage that debris rained down over distant towns for days.

No. Surely those were only rumours. And—and if they weren't, _surely_ that elemental blood was thinning out by now...but just in case, he began locating cover.

"What will this potion accomplish that an Oath would not?"

"It will at least leave me with my free will when I wake. And Oaths are impossibly difficult to phrase correctly."

Patrick cleared his throat, hoping that doing so wouldn't...trigger something. He managed not to shrink under their sudden attention. "Am I to take this potion or not?"

"Yes," Salazar said firmly.

Trying not to be obvious about it, Patrick looked to Lord Slytherin for direction, ignoring the cold glare this earned him from Salazar. After a long moment, Lord Slytherin, frowning with intense displeasure, nodded. He made a slashing motion at the air, and the winds abruptly stopped. Through his relief, Patrick noticed that Salazar looked startled.

Quickly, before the situation could turn ill again, he swallowed the bitter liquid. The world became very fuzzy, and he could feel two sets of hands helping him onto a soft surface. Then everything around him melted into darkness, yet again.

* * *

"This has passed beyond the realm of recklessness, crossed the border to insanity, and continued on into the _land of utter lunacy_," Godric hissed, but there was reluctant admiration in his eyes, I thought. Maybe. Well, if you squinted really hard.

"You're just jealous that I'm more Gryffindor than you," I whispered back as we continued up the stairs.

Godric turned out to be proficient enough at glamouries. He used a succession of spells I'd never seen before to layer illusion after illusion on me: first sight, then touch, then sound. He told me that if I should find myself in a situation where the deception failed due to taste or smell, I was probably buggered anyway.

Though I had used other kinds of image-altering magic before, I still felt odd staring into the portion of wall I had transfigured into a mirror to check his handiwork. Godric's grey eyes looked back at me, and I now had his dark brown hair, pulled back in a tight braid that for once _didn't_ look like it was trying so hard to defy the force of gravity it would reach escape velocity if I dared release it. I restored the wall, glancing at Godric. The nature of the magic allowed the caster to see past the illusion, which was a good thing, because having an argument with yourself probably bordered on the surreal.

"Salazar would argue that it's not something of which to be jealous. And we Gryffindors at least draw the line at full-blown suicidal plans!"

"It's not suicidal," I argued, holding out my wand so he could apply some charms to it as well. "Not if it works. I thought it rather sneaky, myself."

"I doubt so Gryffindor a plan has ever been spawned by such Slytherin reasoning, I will grant you that. _Allowing_ yourself to be captured?"

"Well, I intend to lead them on a good chase first. Just do your part—and try not to get caught." The subsequent confusion would be entertaining, I thought privately, but the plan was risky enough already.

As though to illustrate that very fact, the sound of voices rose up from the base of the stairs yet again. We flattened ourselves against the wall and waited in silence. The voices became louder—it sounded like a group of men arguing. After a tense minute, the voices grew fainter and eventually passed out of hearing, but it was only a matter of time before they decided to search the stairwell.

"You know, I can't even imagine what Salazar would have to say about this," Godric said as we resumed our ascent. He laughed quietly, but the sound had more than a trace of hysteria in it. "Can't even imagine, and I have known him all my life. I should be objecting far more than I am."

"Look at it this way—at least it's something they won't expect."

"They wouldn't expect us to slit our own throats either, but that doesn't recommend it as a good plan."

"We can always make that our back-up plan," I said cheerfully. Godric's foot froze mid-step. "Joke! That was a _joke_."

"Ah," was Godric's weak reply. His foot landed, and he regarded it with slight wonder, as though surprised that it hadn't passed right through the stone. "This feels so unreal, like such an odd, terrible dream that I keep expecting to wake up."

"Good, then I'm not the only one." I glanced behind us and reached out with my nullifying senses to ensure that no one was following under the cover of a disillusionment charm. "Just trust me."

"Trust you."

"Yes."

"This isn't going to be like when I trusted you not to hex me the other day."

"Hey," I objected. "That was your own fault. I said nothing at the time to suggest I wouldn't."

"_Said_ nothing, no."

"Remind me again why I make so convincing a Salazar?"

He grimaced. "Because you are, as you so eloquently put it, a 'sneaky Slytherin bastard.' And because you come up with twisty plans like this."

"It's for the best," I assured him, sensing the last of his opposition crumpling. "Besides, something about me invites evil villains to gloat and spill their clever schemes. They can't seem to help themselves. I might be able to learn something useful while you wreak havoc. And if Senegal starts taunting me...I can keep my head, you can't."

Godric's gaze went distant again, and his mouth drew into a fierce frown. Perhaps distracting him from the argument wasn't fair, but then—being fair didn't win many battles. We reached thef top of the stairs without any further incident.

The overall plan was fairly simple: begin here and work our way down through the levels, until all opposition was neutralised. But aside from the fact that it would be two of us against however many dozens of them—given that we'd already run into more than five wizards, I was rather leery about trusting Lord Wilham's numbers—there were several problems. Including one rather large one: Lord Wilham had been unable to give us more than a sketchy description of the fortress' layout.

Another complication was getting to Senegal. To do that, naturally we had to find him first, but it was the "getting to" part that would present the greatest challenge. With Godric's reputation, Senegal would be a fool not to have set up in the most defensible room in the castle and warded it heavily against attack. And crammed in as many wizards as the room could fit. A frontal assault would be a bastard to carry out.

The final problem was the actual mechanics of taking out the keep's defences. We'd lost the element of surprise—in fact, we'd never had it at all. So not only would we be faced with an undoubtedly large number of guards blocking our way to Senegal and afterward, our way out, but they'd had time to prepare for us, and they were on their guard.

Your ideal keep assault, this was not.

Except that wasn't entirely true. They were prepared for _Godric_, and with that realisation, a plan was born. We needed two things to succeed here: clear, easy access to Senegal and the element of surprise. My capture would accomplish both.

The build-up to my plan, Godric had listened to patiently, but here, he'd begun to protest. At the very least, he'd argued, he should be the one risking capture, since this was his quest for vengeance. I pointed out that he had experience with taking down heavy opposition and while my speciality was evading or escaping capture, and that it made sense to play to our strengths. This argument hadn't satisfied him, but he had reluctantly conceded that it was our best course.

Disguised as Godric, I would lead the guards on a merry chase through the keep, incapacitating those I could and evading those I couldn't. Godric would take advantage of the chaos to clean up from behind, stealthed under a disillusionment charm. After several merry minutes of mayhem, I would let them capture me and take me to Senegal. The threat dealt with, the guards would not be ready for Godric to sweep through them.

In the meantime, I would be locked in a carefully fortified, heavily guarded room with a triumphant Senegal, armed with nothing but my nullifying and the element of surprise until Godric finished with the keep's defenders.

That was where the plan became a bit iffy. But I was a nullifier. That would have to be enough.

"Well, I guess this is where we split up," I murmured. "Remember, I'll draw them out, you clean up behind me. Just don't do anything...um, brave."

Godric's response was a withering glare.

I gave an apologetic shrug. "Okay, okay, you've done this before, sorry. But I'm guessing that time it was a bit more spontaneous." He nodded. "Okay, give me about twenty minutes before you come after me. I'm hoping they'll manage to capture me by then, otherwise this plan will probably have been overkill."

The look on Godric's face suggested that he already thought the plan could be described by many other terms more derogatory than "overkill." "How will I find you?"

"Follow the explosions."

That drew a smile out of him, but it was fleeting. "I don't mean to suggest that I doubt your skill, but...if there are none?"

I shrugged. "Improvise. And then come rescue me."

"And if Morass is here?"

Now that was the question. If Morass was here now or arrived later, then here was a place we needed decidedly not to be. I was almost positive he wasn't, because it seemed he could track the magic of individual wizards within a limited area—Hogsmeade-sized area at least, as I knew from my harrowing encounter with him there. If he were here, he would have located Godric by now.

"If Morass is here," I said finally, "then I'll do my best to warn you. And you have to do your best to escape, _alone_." I cut off his protest pre-emptively. "No. If he gets you, he trades you for Salazar, but Hogwarts still has me. If he gets me, he can use me or trade me, but he can't have both me and Salazar. But if he gets both of us..." I lifted a palm and closed it into a fist, as though capturing a snitch. "You for Salazar, and he's already got me. Hogwarts is done for."

Very reluctantly, Godric nodded, but he still didn't look convinced. When I reached out to open the door, he caught my arm. "Be careful. I—" he broke off with a troubled frown. "You shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't have let you come with me. If anything happens to you because of me—"

I shook my head. "You didn't 'let' me come along. You didn't have any choice in the matter, trust me. I would have followed you no matter how much you protested, which you _did_. Besides, if anything goes wrong now, it'll be _my_ fault. This is my stupid idea."

"And this is my mad quest for revenge," he argued. "I shouldn't be risking you like this."

"There you go again, thinking you had a choice. No, you didn't. _I_ chose the risk." I quirked a smile that seemed to ease some of his guilt. "You don't need to worry about me. I promise none of the screaming you'll hear will be mine."

He couldn't conceal his answering smile quickly enough. "Well, one of us has to worry, since we have both seem to have left our sanity back at the castle."

"Yeah, revenge sort of does that." If only I had been thinking more clearly, surely there was some way I could have prevented Bellatrix from escaping yet again...

"Well—good hunting, Harry."

He gave my arm a squeeze and pulled away. The sound of booted feet rose up from the bottom of the stairwell. The opposition was closing in, right on time.

"You know, you're right," I commented, adjusting my grip on my wand as I waited. "Masters of stealth, they aren't."

Godric stepped back and quietly incanted the disillusionment charm, melting into the shadows with a parting wave that was almost jaunty. I felt slightly naked without the spell, but the plan called for maximum exposure. I wanted to be noticed. Very noticed.

"Good luck," I whispered to him.

I grabbed the handle of the stone door leading out of the tower and into the main keep. Not yet, I decided, and I peered down the spiralling stairs. Well, there was no need to be quiet anymore.

"I wondered when I would run into some resistance," I called down to our unwitting pursuers, amused when all movement ceased for a second. "And not a moment too soon! I was beginning to think I'd have to blow something up to get your attention."

"Every door is guarded, Gryffindor," one shouted up to me, and I could tell by the pounding of their footsteps that they were running up the stairs now. Well, I still had a considerable amount of time; those were a whole bloody lot of stairs, as my burning legs could attest to. "You will find no escape through any of these. We have been expecting you."

"I suppose this the part where I'm supposed to acknowledge the hopelessness of my situation and surrender," I said, studying stairs nearest me thoughtfully.

Hm...stairs and sprinting wizards. I murmured a spell, and my wand gushed water onto the steps. I waved it back and forth a few times to spread the water out. A freezing spell hardened it into ice, but it was too visible under the torchlight. After a moment's consideration, I added an obscuring spell that filled the area with heavy fog and then extinguished the torches closest to me.

I glanced at the door. If that wizard was telling the truth, and it was all that stood between me and Merlin knew how many wizards...hm.

"Be reasonable," called out the wizard who had taken on the role of peaceful arbitrator. "There is no escape for you, and violence will avail you nothing."

"Yes, it will—intense personal satisfaction."

Enough baiting. I listened intently to their footsteps. When I judged that they were getting close, I took hold of the door handle again and yanked the door open to reveal a long corridor. No more than four metres into it stood three wizards, who reacted with commendable speed to my sudden appearance. I jerked to one side, and two spells whizzed by me. I threw another obscuring spell, and drew back into the stairwell, flattening myself against the wall as the corridor filled with mist.

I could just barely make out their figures in the fog. Good, they were charging, and though one of them had the good sense to incant a wind spell to disperse the fog as he ran, it was too late. The wizards shot right past me, onto the stairs coated with ice, and barrelled straight into my ascending pursuers. Startled shouts arose, and some screams were abruptly cut short by muffled thuds.

There was no railing for the stairs.

I felt Godric brush by me and into the corridor. I followed, pausing to see if any of the wizards were still following. I debated waiting for those who had been fortunate enough to bounce down only a few steps to make it to their feet and resume the chase.

"I will take care of them," Godric said quietly. "Go."

* * *

Rowena watched as the Council battle wizards levitated the last body out of the rubble of the old manor. In addition to Marcus and Lavina, seventeen Muggles had been killed, and that was not even the most troubling part. They had all died in the building's collapse, including the guards at their posts. How had Senegal gained entry to the manor without a single person resisting?

There were several possibilities, none of them pleasant to consider. One of Morass' first moves in the war had been to attack the homes of wizards possessing powerful magic relics. The Council still wasn't certain which ones he possessed, but the general consensus was "too many." She could not recall reading of any that would allow someone to bypass the extremely tight wards of the Rivenwood Manor, but she would prefer that it _was_ the case that Morass owned such an artefact.

The alternative, that he had discovered a way to do so on his own without setting off any of the alarms in place—not at all unlikely, given his intelligence—didn't bear thinking about.

But he surely would have used the theoretical device before. No, it had to be something new, something he had developed or some new skill he'd learnt—or there was a third possibility, that they were dealing with a traitor. And _why_ attack Marcus and Lavina? Yes, to draw Godric and, as a result, Salazar, but it didn't make _sense_. The odds of Godric figuring out Senegal's involvement and being enraged enough to seek him out, and of the rest of them being distracted enough not to stop him...

That felt more like an unexpected bonus, a—a side-effect. If somehow it came to pass, good, but not the central goal. It fit Morass' favoured method of operation, since he built redundancies into his redundancies. She wouldn't be surprised if he had four different plans to draw Salazar out in action at any given moment, with wildly varying probabilities of success.

Marcus had not been a Council Lord, but he had served as a battle wizard, operating in the area of intelligence. Was it possible that he had discovered something that had immediately tagged him for death?

But then, where was Cassandra? How did she fit into this? And how curious was it that on the day Harry arrived, Morass found himself the closest to Salazar he had been in years? And that mere days into his stay, the stalemate had broken and the war resumed?

Too many questions. That was the inevitable result of an encounter with Morass. Questions without answer, puzzles that could not be puzzled out. Perhaps that was what bothered her so much about Harry. He felt too much like something Morass would create to sow chaos in their midst, or perhaps too much like Morass himself, with his own propensity for throwing everyone's matters into disarray but his own.

"She wasn't there," Emmeline said, coming up beside her. "She—every rock they overturned, I...by the stars, I have never felt so—"

"We will find her," she assured her, forcing confidence into the words and wishing that Helga were here. Rowena always mishandled emotional affairs. Trying to imagine what Helga would do in this situation, she patted the other witch's shoulder. "There, now. Don't worry. It's quite likely that she's been captured, which means that she's almost certainly alive."

The dismayed look on Emmeline's face hinted very strongly that Rowena had tripped up somewhere along the labyrinthine path of offering comfort.

She tried again. "What I mean is—she'll be a hostage, rather than lying injured or dead somewhere between your mother's home and—" Emmeline's dismay turned to fresh worry, and Rowena looked about helplessly, spotting a tall figure striding towards them. She couldn't keep the relief out of her voice—half due to the distraction he provided and half because his presence meant that he had found a way to restrain Salazar. "Lord Slytherin."

"Cassandra is still missing?" he asked.

"Yes," she confirmed. "Are you here to...?"

He nodded, turning to Emmeline. "Where is Geoffrey? Ah." The elder Gryffindor, who had marked Lord Slytherin's arrival, walked over. When he reached them, Slytherin resumed. "I regret to bring you more ill tidings, but Godric is missing."

"Missing?" Emmeline shook her head with a desperate denial. "No. No, he was just at the castle."

Geoffrey covered his eyes and breathed out a sigh. "Merciful heavens. I am a fool."

"You are not the only one to share that title," Lord Slytherin remarked, though he did not look at Rowena. "I came to tell you, and to order you to Windham. Find Mathias and Davin and bring them with you. We have lost too many Gryffindors today. Rowena, return to the castle. Salazar has taken a sleeping draught, but in case the raid is unsuccessful—I need you there when he wakes."

Rowena nodded. "Of course."

"Raid?" Geoffrey asked.

"Senegal."

"I should—"

"Go to Windham immediately so that I may waste no more of your son's dwindling time than is necessary arguing with you." Slytherin gave a parting nod, but his departure was interrupted by the arrival of an out of breath Council wizard who must have sprinted the whole way from the apparation boundary.

"Wait!" he gasped. "My lord, Morass' forces have mounted a fresh flurry of attacks—Belshire and Upper Cherwick, and the Order of Healers at Shaftesbury have reported massive casualties. Champion Highwater requires your aid in assembling a force to relieve the towns."

"Which of these is the diversion?" Lord Slytherin muttered to himself. "Both, perhaps. He benefits either way. But only one leads to victory." He shook his head and addressed the waiting battle wizard. "No. Highwater will have to take sole command. Or if that is beyond him, Champion Gerard will soon be available to help." He frowned suddenly. "Why did Highwater not use the signalling stones?"

"I'm afraid there is more bad news, sir. We have confirmed reports of Morass intercepting Portkey travel. So far, it looks as though he must be relatively close to do so, but Champion Highwater feared he would be able to block or intercept the magic of the stones as well."

"I see," Lord Slytherin said levelly, his face betraying none of the shocked horror Rowena felt at the news. "We had suspected as much for some time now. You are dismissed, Theodore."

The battle wizard blinked—at the curt dismissal or the fact that Lord Slytherin knew his name, Rowena didn't know. He bowed, and jogged back over to the apparation boundary. Lord Slytherin glanced at the ruins of the manor, for the first time since his arrival, and disapparated without another word, clean through the wards.

"Do as he says," Rowena urged the Gryffindors. "He will find Godric. You will see him again soon, provided Salazar doesn't k—" The bothersome niggling at the back of her mind suddenly jumped to the front and she let out a long exhalation of very coarse language, to the bewilderment of her audience.

"Excuse me," she managed. "I must go."

Potion. He had taken a _potion_. That was why he had been so eager for her to leave, because she was the only one who knew what Harry had taught him, knew that he could nullify potions now.

And though she disapparated and apparated quickly enough to splinch herself under any other circumstances and ran the rest of the way to the gate, Rowena knew that she was already too late. Again.

* * *

Ten minutes after parting with Godric, I was starting to get winded. I paused as I reached yet another a junction, peering round one corner. Another three-wizard and three-Muggle patrol. Closing my eyes, I incanted a hyper-powered Lumos and hoped that the forced amplification wouldn't blow my wand up, as the books had warned such unnatural modifications sometimes did. Even through my eyelids, the light made my headache twinge.

I opened my eyes and felled two of the wizards and one Muggle with stunners before the rest recovered. I threw some more fog their way and retreated, ducking and firing off spells. This was my fourth patrol, and I thought I was starting to find my rhythm. A few random turns later down the maze-like corridors, I finished the group. With maximum volume, of course.

It was almost fun. In an insane, breathless, masochistic kind of way. There was just something incredibly satisfying about bollocksing up the enemy's plans, and I hadn't done any proper fighting for years now. I'd all but forgotten the exhilaration and chaos of battle, though the headache and fatigue I could do without. The keep's design left much to be desired, too. The corridors were beginning to run together in my mind, and I only knew where I was about half of the time.

I all but collided with a swiftly moving patrol turning a corner at the end of corridor. They must have heard the fighting and run over to help. My obscuring spell was almost automatic, and I immediately switched direction, running back down the corridor. I glanced behind to see that the wizards had already cleared the fog, and were still in hot pursuit. Bugger. I could shrug off a stunner, though my head sort of ached afterward and my vision blurred for a moment, but doing so would prompt suspicion, which I couldn't risk yet.

As I summoned more fog, I found myself wishing stone were more flammable. I tossed a few curses into the mist, in the hopes of scoring a serendipitous hit. A wind spell began to disperse the fog, and I turned to run again.

Twenty minutes, I thought to myself. I twisted around another corner and nearly ran into a sixth patrol. I hastily backed up. I could hear the rest catching up behind me. Twenty minutes...I was starting to feel like I'd been slightly overconfident before. I'd be lucky to get five more _seconds_.

A stunner slammed into my back, and though it was nullified the instant it hit, I closed my eyes and let myself fall limp on the floor. Game over, play dead. So things weren't going entirely to plan. Plans never ran smoothly. This was a minor setback. That was all. And if that wasn't all, then I could always change the plan.

"About time we got the bastard. He's got balls, I'll give him that."

I employed all of my training from earlier to keep from nullifying the levitation spell when it came, almost forgetting when I succeeded that unconscious wizards don't breathe sighs of relief.

"Either he's got balls or he lacks brains." A finger prodded my side. "This is the famous Godric Gryffindor, then? Some great dueller. We were put on high alert the whole day for this?"

"He had more than six patrols to soften him up. And we still don't know what he did to the ground level patrols. The ones that aren't dead, that is."

"Soddin' vicious bastard. Hope Senegal's rough with him."

Lackey gossip. Nice. Sometimes even better than arch villain gloating.

"From what I hear, Senegal's just bait. Our boy here's going to be a personal guest of the dread dark lord himself."

The knowing way he'd said 'personal guest' was a bit disquieting. So was the long, uneasy silence after he spoke.

"Y-you don't think he's coming here to get him?"

"Morass?"

"No, soddin' Champion Slytherin." The snickering that followed the sarcastic remark had a bit of a hysteric twinge to it. I fought back a smirk. Then I thought about what he and Salazar would do to us when Godric and I returned, and all temptation to smile vanished.

"You don't think the Council will attack?"

"They don't have the Portkey. We'll have plenty of time to leave for the camp once this is over."

"Dunno. Old Man Slytherin is supposed to be a cunning bastard."

"Doesn't matter if he's Merlin incarnated. There's no way he'll find us without the Portkey. No one can. The Council's been trying that for months."

"They still have Felix. He knows where we are."

"And he's protected against Veritaserum. All of Thaddeus' lot are."

"Still. Bad enough that Morass is coming here."

Someone else poked at me. "Then we'd best give him what he's here for, nice and quick, so he can be on his merry way."

They quieted, leaving me to my thoughts. Well, at least I knew that Morass indeed wasn't here. Yet. But I needed to think of some way to signal Godric, and delay Senegal from contacting Morass long enough to give Godric time to finish with the keep's defenders. I needed to see the room first, of course, to know what I had at my disposal. And I needed to take care of Senegal too.

Until then, I was left with a sense of anticipation.

_Your very own Trojan horse is en route, Senegal. Hand-delivery. You thought you could snatch Godric without harm to yourself? Well, you've "got" him. So let me into your tightly warded room. Let me behind that heavy door and those heavy walls with you. They keep everyone else out_—_but they also keep you in. With me._

_This is a ballroom? Then let's dance._


	13. Centre of the Storm

Author: Aedalena  
Summary: Harry Potter is no pushover. He's no hero, and he is definitely no one's pawn. What he is is a nullifier, thankyouverymuch, and he'd like to be left alone. Unfortunately, when he starts caring again, this bitter, messed up wizard will have to play the one role he never wanted to have, that of a champion. But whose champion will he be? No one betrays Harry Potter and gets away with it. Not even Albus Dumbledore. Now Dumbledore needs to convince the man whose trust he lost long ago to save the world…and his greatest ally in that endeavour may be Salazar Slytherin?  
_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to J.K. Rowling. No profit is being made by the author of this fanfic.  
_**This chapter:** Harry and Godric fail to out-run trouble this time, Salazar races to find them, opportunity knocks at Remus and Sirius' chamber door, and vibrations stir the spider in his web. And I was _this_ close to naming the chapter "Seeing Double," but I managed, somehow, to resist.  
_**Note**_: It is helpful to have read "The Founders: Pieces of Life" for the background it provides on a few things in this chapter, but not necessary.  
Thanks to: Skatha, for giving me the motive and incentives to finish the chapter sometime this century. Japonica, for Brit-picking the chapter. Everyone else, for waiting.

**NULLIFIER  
**_**Chapter Twelve: Centre of the Storm**_

_"And the dancing has begun now,  
__And the dancers whirl round gaily  
__In the waltz's giddy mazes,  
__And the ground beneath them trembles."  
_—_Heinrich Heine_

* * *

Patrick was dreaming.

It was unusually pleasant for one of his dreams, wfarm and comfortable. His awareness drifted in and out hazily, more in than out as the minutes passed. He opened his eyes slowly and found himself in a spacious, well-lit room that smelled faintly of bitter herbs...the hospital wing? Why did that feel familiar? And he was staring up into the blurry face of—no, it was the nightmare again.

Salazar Slytherin. Enough that Patrick had to devote nearly every waking hour to ensuring his safety, could he not be left the refuge of sleep at the very least?

His limbs still felt heavy with sleep, as did his eyelids. Tired. He was too tired to deal with this. Tired, even when he was dreaming. When his eyes began to drift shut again, he didn't fight.

A sharp impact jerked his head to one side, leaving his left cheek stinging. He was vaguely aware that this was not supposed to be possible in the dreamscape, but maybe if he just stayed still...

"Wake up," Salazar Slytherin snapped, shattering the last of his peace.

The events of his last few hours of consciousness flooded his memory, filling him with something that was part horror, part resignation. It was a bad sign when nightmares were preferable to reality.

"I am awake," Patrick said glumly, sitting up slowly in the bed and shaking off the last of the lingering fuzziness from the sleeping draught. He stretched, ignoring the protests that nearly every muscle in his body voiced loudly and all at once. He had still not recovered from that last stunner? Strange. And why was it still dark outside?

"Has it been twelve hours already?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

Apparently convinced that he was sufficiently awake, Salazar stepped back from the bed. "No."

"Oh." Then the unspoken implication sunk in, and leaden dreafd filled his stomach as he clutched at the covers. "_No_? Oh, no. No. We are _not_ going to disobey a direc—"

"We are." The other wizard tossed him his wand and moved to the potions cupboard, searching through the shelves for a moment before pulling out two phials filled with a thick, brown liquid and slipping them into his robes, followed by two other potions that he shielded from Patrick's view. "Get up."

Resistance would be almost less than useless, he knew, but he had to _try_. "Your father is—"

"Away." Salazar turned away from the cupboard and studied the door, his narrowed eyes seeming to gaze beyond the thick wood.

"Lady Helga and Rowena are—"

"Gone." He motioned Patrick over with thinly concealed impatience.

Warily, Patrick disentangled himself from the bed, clutching his wand tightly by his side, ineffective though it would be should Salazar deem him more an obstruction than aid. With clearly telegraphed reluctance, he staggered over. The wizard nodded at the door in what was unmistakably an order, his eyes flashing a pre-emptive warning that he would tolerate no protests. He could be unnervingly like his father sometimes.

Patrick hesitated, but when Salazar's mouth twitched downward ever so slightly in what threatened to become a frown, he hastened to obey. He stepped over to the door, pulled it open, and stepped out, right into a bright red light that faded instantly into blackness, taking him with it.

* * *

As Sirius announced, for the fortieth time, his emphatic desire to kill Salazar Slytherin, Remus found himself not entirely opposed to that course of action, though he was a rather mild man by nature—discounting full moons. While he didn't have the deeply ingrained dislike of confined spaces that Sirius did after being incarcerated for over a decade in Azkaban, he was equally susceptible to boredom...and to worry, something that an overabundance in free time bred in alarming quantities.

"...bloody untrustworthy snake..."

Even if Slytherin wasn't quite as villainous as the history books portrayed him—"Not _yet,_" Sirius had muttered darkly as he probed at the walls for any hint of weakness—he did appear to possess a sinister hold over Harry. And it did not speak well of his intentions that he felt it necessary to separate them from Harry.

What was he planning? Remus wished he knew more about what Dumbledore had hoped to accomplish by sending them here. He had gone off at length about Harry learning how to control his nullifying magic, as well as some cryptic nonsense about returning something, but that was all rather unhelpfully vague.

"...murderous, cold-blooded _bastard_."

Even in the best case, that Slytherin meant Harry no ill, things looked grim. Voldemort knew that Harry was here, and Harry was running round, sans protection, with Bellatrix and Mulciber at large. Worse, Harry had no idea they were hunting him. Remus had been so relieved to see that Harry was safe at first—and then so distracted by the threats and the puzzling mystery of Slytherin's resemblance to the Potters—that Harry had passed out before Remus thought to share their news about the Death Eaters that had followed him back.

Reflecting upon it now, however, he wondered if that was such a bad thing. Harry hated no one as fiercely as he did Bellatrix, and though Remus had confidence in Harry's ability to take care of himself most of the time, he knew how willingly reason surrendered to rage.

"What do you think he's doing to Harry now? I know he's doing _something_. He was anxious enough to get rid of us. I swear, the minute I get out of here, I'm going to bloody tear his heart out and feed it to the Giant Squid. Raw!"

Also lurking about was this mysterious Morass, the wizard who had the founders and Harry spooked, and Harry didn't spook easily. Something was bound to go horribly wrong; Harry didn't just stir up trouble: he dived into it, splashed it about, tipped the cauldron and spilt the contents over anyone unfortunate enough to be nearby. The odds of Harry finding trouble, or the reverse, as the case often was, grew with every minute that passed.

"'This is for your own protection.' Yeah? I'll bloody show _him _whose protection it's for!"

Meanwhile, they were trapped in this cold, stone chamber, helpless to do anything but worry.

"If he lays one _finger_ on my godson, I'll carve out his spleen. With a wooden spoon. A _dull_ wooden spoon!"

...and, in Sirius' case, plot revenge.

At least they were being fed. For now. And there was no basilisk. Yet.

* * *

"—_ervate._"

He opened his eyes. There was an unconscious wizard lying on the floor next to him. Henry. He turned his head to the other side and saw another wizard sprawled out, unconscious. No one he knew, but the man wore the formal robes of a battle wizard. Finally, Patrick looked up to see Salazar Slytherin peering down at him yet again, frowning impatiently.

"Stand up. These fools have already cost us more time than we can afford to spare."

Ominous though that sounded, the frown was more than enough motivation for Patrick to struggle to his feet. By the time the castle walls had stopped twisting quite so nauseatingly, Salazar was already nearing the end of the corridor. He jogged to catch up.

"You knew those wizards were there," he said, marvelling that he'd managed to muster any surprise at that thought. "You might have warned me."

"That would have defeated the purpose of sending you out. My father is not a fool. They would have had orders to prevent anyone from leaving, whether through magical or, in my case, physical means." Salazar looked back at the two distant bodies. "They were likely the most he could spare in the way of 'protection.'" His short, sudden bark of nearly humourless laughter startled Patrick. "How frustrating that must have been for him."

That wasn't entirely true, Patrick thought with no small amount of guilt. There was one wizard left, and his was the responsibility of being Salazar's sole protector, now that everyone else had failed. Hardly a comforting thought. He had proved to be quite abysmal at it so far.

But it wasn't all his fault. The Slytherins—the Gryffindors—they were just too_ much_. Too much energy, too much drive, too much of everything. Even when life was at its most peaceful, he had to push himself to keep up with them. Walk, and they ran. Match speed, and they sprouted wings. Now, with everything falling into chaos, he felt himself falling with it, further and further behind in his duty.

"You sent me out there to be a distraction," he clarified.

"Yes."

The answer was so calm and matter of fact that it felt unreasonable, even petty, to take offence.

"We're going after Senegal as well?" he queried, wondering at his own optimism to even ask, as though there was a possibility of the answer being no.

"If that is where I will find Godric and Harry, then yes." He glanced behind at Patrick. "Do you know where Rowena's chambers are?"

The unexpected change of subject startled him into answering truthfully. "Yes, of course."

"Good. The password, however—that might pose a problem."

Patrick considered saying nothing, but the darkly contemplative silence that followed the statement inspired a number of worrisome thoughts about the lengths Salazar might go to in order to remove any and all such "problems" from his path.

"No," he said reluctantly. "I know what it is."

Something that was almost curiosity passed over Salazar's face but it was very fleeting and soon replaced by his usual impassivity. "Good. I need a hair from her comb. Meet me at the statue of the old crone." His voice became more casual and he pulled a violet potion from his robes, lifting the phial up so that it caught the torchlight and sparkled. "And if you consider attempting to betray me to my father, even in passing, be advised that the number of painful ends I could devise for you borders upon the infinite. This is one. If you are interested in the details, simply give me cause for suspicion."

"Do you know," Patrick said as he watched Salazar put the potion away, "somehow I doubt it could possibly be worse than what your father would do to me."

"I will go, with or without your aid," Salazar said, walking away. "But if you choose not to help me...I will _remember_."

Patrick stared at his sole remaining charge for a moment before accepting the ultimate futility of denying it any longer: Salazar was set upon getting himself killed and trying to prevent him from leaving would be tantamount to suicide. The only choice he was left with was to cooperate. Cooperate, and hope that Salazar proved as unstoppable a force to the enemy as he did to his allies.

And even were it not his only choice—

_I will __**remember**_.

He shuddered. The alternative didn't bear thinking about.

* * *

"Hello?"

Remus started, and scrambled to his feet as he looked about for the source of the shout. Sirius recovered from his surprise to transform into his animagus form and trot towards the closed entrance to the Chamber, head cocked to one side, listening. Remus followed. Sirius stopped just in front of it, sniffed, and sneezed. He was still sneezing when he morphed back into human shape.

"Students," he muttered quietly to Remus, after he'd recovered. "And a metric tonne of dust." He raised his voice to address the large doors. "Hello! Who's there?"

Remus leaned closer and with his own slightly enhanced senses, could hear anxious whispering, though it was too soft for him to make out individual words. He picked up the faintest scent of nervous sweat.

"We're—it doesn't matter who we are. Who are you? Are you prisoners of Slytherin?"

"No, of course not," Sirius snarled, face turning murderous at the founder's name. "He just gave us the grand tour of the castle and we thought this room looked so sodding cosy we absolutely _had_ to have it, and by the way, would he mind just sealing it off and _locking_ us i—"

"Yes," Remus clarified, casting a pointed look at his friend to remind him that venting through sarcasm, however therapeutical, was not the best method for reassuring nervous students who could quite literally hold the key to their freedom. "I'm afraid we are indeed prisoners."

"See?" Remus heard a voice hiss quietly. "I told you!"

The answering whisper, though vehement, was even softer. "Do you really think Slytherin just let you follow him to this place? That he didn't notice? This is a trap!"

"He's never spotted _me _before. Just because _you_ were careless enough to be seen—"

"Let's just see what they have to say. If they sound like Council plants, then we can just, um."

"Leave? Hardly. We'd have to go in there and kill them ourselves."

Silence.

"Do we? Have to?"

A disgusted snort.

"Let's just get this over with!"

Silence again, presumably filled by unseen nods. Finally, a tremulous voice addressed Remus and Sirius. "You were sent by...him?"

"Him?" Sirius mouthed to him.

Him. Morass? Remus thought furiously and decided that given what he'd heard, the gamble was necessary. This could be a trick of Slytherin's, but it sounded more like— "Yes, we were sent by Morass on a...a vital mission."

More hushed whispering. Then, another voice spoke, with audible scepticism. "A vital mission to be caught at the front gates?"

"Don't be ridiculous," Remus chided gently. "I'm sure you are familiar with the legend of the Trojan Horse. Obviously, we were meant to be caught, so that we could later be freed to attack from within. We were told to expect someone to release us when the time came. Am I correct in assuming that this is why you are here?"

Hesitation. They were starting to crumble. "We heard rumours that a pair of intruders had been imprisoned here. But we've received no word from anyone to indicate that we are supposed to help you..."

"It's possible that the message was intercepted," Sirius said, joining the act with considerable enthusiasm now that their prospects for escape seemed to be rapidly improving. "In which case your initiative will be highly rewarded."

Silence. Then, someone uttered a handful of syllables, and the door began to creak open. Five young wizards, four male and one female, stood warily. Remus opened his hands to show that he had no wand, and saw Sirius do the same out of the corner of his eye. They stepped into the long underground pipe leading up into the school.

"These were hanging near the door," the young witch said, pulling two familiar wands out of her robes and holding them out.

Remus took his with a grateful smile that seemed to put her at ease. "Thank you."

"Is Professor Evans one of ours too? One of you?" she asked, colouring slightly when Sirius gave her a look.

At first the connection didn't occur to him, but then he caught the shudder one of the students gave at the name. Professor Evans...Harry? Harry, teaching? Strange. The school still seemed to be intact.

"Of course," Remus said, trying not to sound to eager for information. "I hope he hasn't...ah, he hasn't been too obvious about his loyalties?"

"He argued with _Slytherin_," she replied, with something very like awe. "The younger Slytherin, I mean. Not that it would be less impressive to argue with the elder one, of course. But. He _argued_ with him. About Muggleborns. With _Slytherin_."

Remus allowed himself an internal sigh of relief. That sounded more like their Harry. "He will receive a reprimand, of course, for risking his cover."

The girl shook her head, looking abashed. "Oh, no. I didn't mean to—Oh, but he was brilliant, really. He—"

"I'm sure he was," Remus interrupted, looking over at Sirius, whose state of alert readiness was belied by his casual stance. "What is the situation? I assume you had reason to wait until now to free us."

"The school masters are gone," one of the boys explained, tapping his wand against his thigh with nervous excitement. Remus, who had seen a young Auror once lose a leg that way, winced. "Lady Rowena and Lady Helga—even Gryffindor and Slytherin. Lord Morass must have made his strike. Now is the ideal time to bring down the wards."

The founders gone? Remus did his best to hide his dismay behind an encouraging smile.

"H—Professor Evans?" Sirius demanded.

"Evans? I haven't seen him either." The boy shot a querying glance at his peers, who shook their heads. "He must still be making preparations."

Gone, then. Splendid. Remus gave a Sirius a subtle kick before he finished the first syllable of whatever oath he'd been ready to spit.

"What are your plans now?" Remus probed. "We should coordinate our actions."

"We were about to gather the rest. We can advance to the gates and weaken the wards while you alert Lord Morass."

Weaken the wards? Alert the much-alluded-to Morass? And where had Harry gone? _What was going on?_

"How many strong are y—we?" Sirius asked. The question was met with renewed suspicion, and he added, "Timing is crucial. We need to know how long it will take for you to weaken the wards."

"We've fifty," the witch said, turning to glance nervously down the length of the long pipe. "We should hurry. There's no telling when the school masters will return."

The dark-haired boy who seemed to be the leader nodded and gestured at his now-armed rescuees to follow behind, betraying his inexperience and quite probably his house, which Remus suspected now to be Gryffindor. He stayed close to the girl, who was the least taciturn of the conspirators.

"How did you find us?" he whispered, remembering Harry's account of his adventure in the Chamber, which had featured a girl's toilet, Parseltongue, a basilisk, and Tom Riddle.

"Oh, there is always supposed to be one of us following Slytherin," she whispered back. "Orders from Lord Morass himself. I'm the best at it, so I'm usually the one doing it. I followed him here this evening, when he brought you supper. I heard him speak the password, and I waited until he was gone before trying it myself. When I saw that door back there, sealed off, I figured you must be the two prisoners we'd heard about."

No Parseltongue. Lucky for them, but Remus had the feeling that was a mistake that Slytherin wouldn't be repeating. He glanced at Sirius, who gave a subtle nod indicating his readiness to act. Remus followed the students for a moment in silent reflection.

To his admittedly limited knowledge, this student uprising was not part of whatever Dumbledore had had in mind sending them here. And while the enemy of their enemy was traditionally a friend, Harry seemed to trust Slytherin, and the other founders supported his actions for now, which meant...

He nodded back at Sirius, and the two of them drew their wands, each stunning the student nearest him. The leader, who'd had the presence of mind at least to keep his hand on his wand the entire time, whirled with a curse, but Sirius dropped him with another stunner. Remus blocked the spell of one wizard and shrugged off the other with the resistance lent to him by his lycanthropy. Petrificus Totalus. He grimaced and shook his limbs out to rid himself of the partial stiffness his condition had been unable to ignore.

"_Stupefy_." Another student fell, and Sirius took care of the last, who was distracted with trying to hexing Remus again.

Remus studied the five unconscious students while Sirius gathered up their wands. What to do with them? He didn't want to risk them waking and carrying through with their plan. If only there was a way to change the password to the Chamber—or did it work from the inside?

"We might be able to—" he began, only to stop when Sirius pointed at something in front of them.

Hanging down into the pipe from the entrance in the girl's toilet was a tall rope ladder. Sirius held up the captured wands with a fierce grin. Shaking his head and smiling, Remus followed Sirius up the ladder and into the loo, helping him pull it up. Sparing the students trapped below a final glance, Remus transfigured the ladder into an inobtrusive comb and left it on the sink.

"We need to find Harry," Sirius said impatiently as they strode out into the corridor.

"You heard the girl. He isn't here."

Sirius was quiet for several minutes as they passed unfamiliar portraits that had likely been replaced several times over by the time they'd attended Hogwarts. "They've already lost him, and they only had him, what? Two days? I thought the founders were supposed to be..." He broke off with a frustrated gesture.

"We'll find him," Remus said quietly, half to reassure himself. "But first we need to get out of Hogwarts. Getting ourselves locked up again won't help anyone."

"Hogsmeade?"

He nodded slowly. "As good a place as any. We may find some of the others there. It's strange that Ron hasn't tried to gain entry to the castle. Moody I could understand, but—it seems increasingly likely that the others have been replaced with Death Eaters as well."

"We'll find out soon enough, I'm sure. I'd like to know how they breached our security," Sirius replied, staring moodily down the corridor. "Well, let's go visit our old, ugly friend."

* * *

For the first time in his life, Patrick looked down at Salazar Slytherin, and he savoured the moment.

"I never realised how short Rowena was," the wizard—witch, now—remarked once he had recovered from the Polyjuice transformation. "It must be quite inconvenient."

Salazar glanced at him, and Patrick hastily composed himself, wiping any trace of his amusement from his voice. "What now?"

"We leave. My father likely has the front gates guarded, so we will follow a path Harry has used before to evade us." Salazar pointed at the weathered statue of a grinning, gap-toothed crone. "Dissendium."

A passageway opened up. It was discouragingly long and dark. Patrick lit his wand and entered first, determined to carry out at least this basic aspect of his duty. He scanned the immediate length of tunnel and beckoned Salazar in. That explained why Salazar and Rowena had been so cross the other day; he wasn't the only one who'd lost Evans before. It was oddly comforting to know that even a nullifier couldn't restrain the slippery bastard.

"Wait!" a voice called from the entrance. "Lady Ravenclaw!"

Patrick whirled, a spell ready on his lips. Salazar made a quelling motion with one hand, and he reluctantly lowered his wand to study the newcomers. There were two—he recognised them from yesterday, when Salazar had escorted them into the castle. He hadn't seen them since, so he'd assumed they were turned over to Lord Slytherin. Clearly, he'd been mistaken.

From the brief flash of surprise on Salazar's face, he hadn't expected to see them either. "Yes?"

"There are a group of students plotting to weaken the wards," the lighter-haired one reported. "We managed to convince them that we were allies—" at Salazar's delicately raised brow, the wizard continued hastily, "though of course we aren't. After they freed us, we subdued them, and left them in the Chamber. You, ah, do know about the Chamber?"

Chamber? Patrick glanced at Salazar to see if the term was familiar to him, but his expression betrayed no recognition. Not, he thought ruefully, that this meant anything.

"_And_—" the dark-haired one said, glaring at Salazar, who was making no move to reveal his true identity. "Harry. Where is he?"

"Missing," Salazar replied stiffly.

The wizard levelled an accusing finger at them. "I _knew_ it. You—"

"Are leaving just now to retrieve him," Salazar interrupted. Then he frowned, though the expression translated on Rowena's face as more of a petulant pout. "We have no time to suppress a student rebellion."

The black-haired one, who was clearly the more excitable of the two, opened his mouth to speak, but Salazar cut it off with an imperious wave. Too curt, Patrick noted. The motion lacked Rowena's grace.

"I possess the means to locate him, but I cannot leave the castle if there is a chance it may be taken from within." He moved towards the entrance to the passageway, borrowing a distressed expression Rowena sometimes wore when interacting with someone who didn't know her well enough to recognise the baited trap.

The reproduction was so accurate that the disturbing suspicion began to form in Patrick's mind that this was not the first time Salazar had impersonated Rowena.

"They are in grave danger, but my first duty is to Hogwarts," Salazar said, his tone softer now. "There is no one left to keep order, save Osric, and he is yet unaware of the situation."

"But we—" The brown-haired wizard stopped, nostrils flaring with visible frustration. "Very well. We will tell this Osric and make sure nothing happens to the school. You're certain you can find Harry?"

"We'll do no such thing," the other wizard snapped, and he couldn't seem to decide who to direct the words at, his friend or Salazar. "We are _not_ going to stay and fix their mess when we could be out searching for Harry!"

"Sirius," the first wizard said patiently. "She can find him. We can't. We're not going to help Harry by wandering all over the countryside for him."

"Tell us where he is!" Sirius ignored his friend to focus a hard-eyed stare at Salazar. Patrick felt his hand tighten around his wand. "You can fix your own problem. We'll get him."

"We are wasting time," Salazar stated, addressing the calmer wizard. "There is a ritual I must perform. It is complicated and I cannot afford distractions."

The wizard nodded slowly. "Sirius, this is the best we can do to help Harry for now. And you know how he feels about Hogwarts." He turned to Salazar. "Where can we find this Osric?"

"Try the hospital wing."

As soon as the pair—the light-haired wizard dragging his scowling companion behind him—were out of sight, Salazar leapt into the passageway and took off at a run that was no less swift for his Polyjuice-shortened stride. Patrick was forced yet again to sprint to catch up. "Why would Osric be at the hospital wing?"

"He wouldn't. But that is the first place Rowena will go when she returns."

"Oh." Patrick winced at the thought of her reaction, and changed the subject before he could dwell on it for too long. "Do you really know where to find them? Godric, and...Harry?"

"Not yet. But I will."

"Then where are we going?" he asked, wincing at how laboured his breathing sounded already. Too much sentry duty, not enough field action.

"To visit a prisoner."

* * *

"_Ennervate_."

I feigned grogginess, opening my eyes slowly. Two rough pairs of hands forced me to my feet. I tried to shake them off, but their grip remained firm. I lifted my head and looked straight ahead at the wizard I assumed was Delis Senegal. He was taller than I'd expected, given Wilham's description, though I'd called the fancy robes: a deep, rich blue with silver trim I was certain he'd selected precisely because it complemented his eyes. His hair was dark brown with streaks of premature grey. Premature, I assumed, because he looked only slightly older than Salazar, in his early to mid thirties. He met my scrutiny with a smug, self-satisfied smile.

_And the theme for this evening's villain is...stylishly evil!_

"Godric Gryffindor," he said with obvious relish, holding his wand casually, pointed down and to the right. Oh so deliberately not at me. "You came."

"You called," I replied flippantly, studying the room for anything of potential use.

It was roughly the size of my quarters at Hogwarts, but entirely without windows. On the bright side, this meant I had only one exit to watch. Two large tapestries hung from two walls, one depicting a knight preparing to strike a killing blow to a roaring lion. Were lions associated with the Gryffindor family? If so, it was a disconcerting piece of possible foreshadowing, if you believed in that sort of thing. Which I didn't.

It was also flammable. As was the other. I made note.

Four wooden chairs arrayed around a table off in one corner of the room. Three more and another, smaller table, in the opposite corner. All very flammable, excellent. The carpet beneath my feet was thick, though not quite as thick as the one back at Hogwarts. Better and better.

As for the opposition—one wizard to go with each chair. Two holding me. Plus Senegal. And four sword-wielding men in armour who almost had to be Muggles. All of them stony-faced, seemingly indifferent to my lamentable fate. No allies, not that I'd expected any. Fourteen against one in a small room...not exactly the odds that I would prefer, but Godric plus the element of surprise has to count for at least ten, so I'd be fine once I found a way to signal him.

Noticing my scrutiny of the room, Senegal shook his head. "Godric, you insult my competence. There is no escape from this room. Look around—you would be stunned before you took a single step."

I smiled and produced an unconcerned shrug. "You would be surprised how many times I've heard the phrase 'there is no escape.' And yet here I am."

Senegal ignored the comment and held up a large blue stone that looked heavy enough to nearly qualify as a weapon. "This is a Portkey. I do not need to tell you where it leads."

"Ah, but you want to," I said, trying to mask my surprise. Portkey? Bugger, that wasn't part of the plan.

He closed his hand over the stone and narrowed his eyes at me. "The famous Gryffindor bravery. _Bravado_." The angry crease in his forehead smoothed out and he smiled at me. "How like your brother. He knew he was going to die, of course, so perhaps it was easier. But it was quickly replaced, by that Gryffindor _temper_."

Somebody had a grudge. I raised an eyebrow, giving him a taste of Slytherin _disdain_ to broaden his palate. "Be honest with yourself. In a fair fight, you would have been a bloodstain to clean out of the carpet."

Sheathing his wand, he lifted his hand and formed a fist, moving it in a strange wobbling motion. The air thickened with nearly tangible magic as the wall to my right began to ripple. The magic built, and my skin began to tingle in response, the way it sometimes did when my body was preparing to nullify something without my permission. His fist stilled, and the wall slowly ceased its heaving motion. My nullifying hackles relaxed, and I focussed my attention back on Senegal, refusing to look intimidated.

"And that is how your brother died. Trapped beneath the stone walls of his very home." He paused, watching for the slightest reaction. "Do you wish to know how his wife died?"

"Not particularly," I said, trying to decide if I should try to act more like Godric, lest I begin rousing suspicion. Then again, given the mood I'd left him in, Godric would probably have strangled him by now, so maybe that wasn't the best of plans. "But I'm sure you will tell me anyway."

The air shuddered then, almost imperceptively, and by the fearful blanches on the faces of the wizards I could see, I probably wasn't going to like what I saw when I turned around. Senegal bowed deeply, and then I knew for certain that I wasn't. Damn it. The rest of my plan was officially bollocksed.

"Delis. I see you are incapable as ever of restraining yourself in the presence of a...helpless victim."

I struggled against the wizards holding me, and they relented, letting me face our new arrival, probably hoping it would intimidate me. Well, if that was their intent, it worked. I forced down my rising panic. It wouldn't help me.

Morass.

He looked slightly different, though it could have been the lighting. Less pale, more human. Eye colour closer to brown than red. Whatever he'd been doing the last few days must have agreed with him, I thought a bit irrelevantly. When I met his eyes I could tell that he knew. He could see beyond the glamour. How could you hide from someone who could see _magic_? Damn it.

"How fortunate that I arrived just in time to save you from your own arrogance," Morass continued, speaking to Senegal but watching me. "Your helpless victim is neither helpless nor a victim. My guess is that this role was intended for you."

"Arrogance, my lord?" Senegal protested. "There are fifteen men in this room, and I have his wand. It doesn't matter _how_ powerful his wandless magic is, it would be impossible for him to fight his way out."

"Oh, I wouldn't be so certain about that." Morass smiled at me, a very natural, very genuine smile. It was damned creepy. "However, it's not his wandless magic that you should be wary of. This is not Godric Gryffindor."

Shit. I remained frozen, trying desperately to think of some way to warn Godric away. Morass tilted his head very slightly, closing his eyes for a moment. He opened them. "Godric is on the third level of the fortress, near the southeast tower, finishing off the last man of one of your patrols with a rather enthusiastic blasting spell."

Senegal looked torn between indignation and self-preservation as he struggled to decide if he should argue with Morass. "If that isn't Godric, then who—"

"His identity is of no concern to you."

His expression suggesting otherwise, the now extremely unnerved Senegal fought to regain his lordly cool. "I will, of course, send patrols to capture the real—"

"I think not." Morass looked almost amused. "Outside of this room, a mere seven men of yours remain standing. Out of how many? A gross?"

Senegal paled. After a very brief glow of triumph at the plan's success—discounting Morass—I began to wish I weren't right between the two of them, so I could take advantage of their exchange to try something. Anything would be better than just waiting.

"Even if that were not so, you have already proven yourself perilously incompetent." Morass moved to the door, and the wizards in his way hastily scrambled to get out of it. He paused in the doorframe and addressed me, his voice soft. "You may be tempted to struggle. I suggest you restrain all such impulses." He turned back to Senegal. "If he attempts to escape, destroy the keep."

Destroy the keep? That didn't sound too bad actually. Not much different than what Godric probably had planned.

Senegal hesitated. "My lord? But what of—?"

"Your other orders still stand, should he offer no struggle."

I stiffened when his gaze fell on me again and swallowed the urge to say something defiant, however better it might have made me feel. I couldn't shake the feeling that this was some kind of test, that I was only still in the keep by his sufferance, and he was waiting for something. And I wasn't about to give it to him.

When it became apparent I wasn't going to speak, Morass continued. "If these walls crumble, I can teleport away. Senegal and his men have Portkeys. Godric, however...it would be a pity for him to share his brother's fate."

Oh.

He laughed quietly at my expression. "How useful he has proven to be. Instant leverage over any Slytherin."

"What am I to do with him?" Senegal asked.

"Take him to the camp. My nullifiers will prevent him from doing any further harm."

Surely, he didn't really expect Senegal to turn magical wrecking ball on the keep while we were still _in _it? But Senegal nodded earnestly, looking like protest was the furthest thing from his mind, and Morass disappeared into the corridor, satisfied that his point had been unequivocally made. Which I could only assume was that I was trapped in a fortress full of dangerous lunatics.

The hands holding me tightened their grip. I hastily recalculated the odds. They'd gained a distressing number of zeroes, forcing me to conclude that for now, at least, we were at Luck's mercy. And I had the sinking suspicion that as far as patience towards me was concerned, Luck's cup did not so much runneth over as it runneth close to fucking _empty_.

* * *

"Who administered Veritaserum to the prisoner?"

The warden on duty shrank back at the cold fury bottled into that simple question, and Helga gave him an encouraging smile, trying not to sigh. For all their famed subtlety, Slytherins seemed oblivious to the concept of coaxing answers out of a person with something other than intimidation or brute force. True, Lord Slytherin hadn't raised his voice at all, and his expression had been quite mild, in fact, but there was no mistaking that the wrong answer would find the warden serving out the rest of his short days in the wild, dragon-infested eastern outskirts of the Council's domain.

"Champion Sarvald insisted that he interrogate him personally, sir."

"Sarvald." Lord Slytherin repeated the name with a revulsion usually reserved for the darkest of curses, and the warden relaxed fractionally now that the focus of his anger had shifted. "Naturally, intending to take credit for whatever useful intelligence the prisoner possessed. The greedy _fool_."

The gathered wardens, and even some of Slytherin's own battle wizards, looked uncomfortable to be hearing one Champion castigate another, even if not present, with such vitriol. Helga, who had heard many an unflattering tale about Sarvald from Alviva during her brief apprenticeship to the witch, could not disagree with Lord Slytherin's assessment of the man.

Helga studied the bound prisoner, whose lack of awareness was caused by more than Veritaserum's inhibition-lowering properties. Not soon after Thaddeus had risen as Morass' chief lieutenant and spymaster, the Council had found that some prisoners reacted undesirably to the serum most commonly used for interrogation: the potion would render them senseless, or violent, or simply kill them. That didn't preclude cruder methods of interrogation, but these were generally less reliable and thorough.

The Order of Healers had been unable to determine how Thaddeus had induced the reaction in his men, much less how to counter it. The Council had then tasked Helga with researching the problem, and she had spent half a year searching for answers, only to find that the prisoners' very magic had been altered to react with hostility towards that one potion, with no way to reverse the damage until they'd discovered just how this was done. And without a nullifier or two dedicated full time to studying the magic to determine the nature of the alteration, this was all but impossible.

The effects induced by Veritaserum lasted anywhere from a day to a week, and subsequent doses resulted in progressively worse recovery times. Lord Slytherin moved closer to the prisoner and peered into his eyes. Helga knew what Lord Slytherin's next question would be before he spoke the words.

"When did Sarvald begin his interrogation?"

The warden tensed again. "This morning, my Lord Champion."

Helga stepped between the warden and Lord Slytherin, hearing a relieved exhalation from several of the battle wizards as she did so. "Warin, we still have—"

"Nothing," Lord Slytherin gritted out, stepping back from the vacant-eyed wizard with a disgusted snarl. "A Portkey trail that ends midair, a mindless prisoner who doesn't know his own name..."

The assembled battle wizards shifted nervously, and Helga has to suppress the urge to do the same as a gust of wind buffeted her robes and set the torchlight flickering. "A tracking spell—" she suggested.

The prisoner threw himself against the ropes holding him to the chair in an unexpected surge of violence, and Helga gasped involuntarily. One of Slytherin's men lunged to hold him back, but he rocked the chair so forcefully that it toppled to the side, breaking off an arm. The ropes slackened and the prisoner launched himself at the man with a crazed burble of laughter, managing to swipe the gaping wizard with a hand curled into a stiff claw.

Before he could do more than superficial damage, however, a screeching jet of wind threw him into an open cell and slammed the door closed after him with an echoing clang. Another battle wizard quickly trotted over to the cell and locked it.

"Does nothing, if blocked by wards," Lord Slytherin said crossly, as if the interruption hadn't occurred. "He has the trap baited now, but what is the _point_ if prey cannot— " The injured wizard wiped blood from where the prisoner's nails had torn his skin, and Slytherin broke off, staring at the wizard for a moment with a startled frown that quickly settled into non-expression. "Always a game to him. Let us win the obvious battles so we don't notice when we're losing the rest."

"My lord?" Helga prompted, who had seen enough of that look on Salazar's face to know to worry. She glanced between him and the injured wizard, unable to decide who needed her attention more.

"There is someone I must speak to," he said, turning away from them. Despite the grim set to his shoulders, his men looked encouraged by the prospect of a plan, so Helga tried to summon the same enthusiasm. "I will return shortly."

He shook his head at the men who started to follow. Helga hesitated, and then touched his arm lightly, and he allowed her to lead him out of the interrogation chamber, into the hall. "I feel that I must ask what you intend to do."

"I answer to the Council, Lady Hufflepuff, not you." Highly alarmed now, she opened her mouth to protest, but he was already shaking his head. "Your concern is noted, but I request that you remain behind with the battle wizards. I do not wish to force you to choose between your personal loyalties, which I know you value greatly, and the Oath you have given to the Council."

She tried not to choke. "Treason, my lord?"

Lord Slytherin's smile was bone dry. "I will consider it heartening that this is the worst crime you think me capable of." Ignoring her silent shock, he reached into his robe and pulled out a signalling stone. He tapped his wand to it, his white-knuckled grip the only visible sign of tension. "Tower of Melander."

He disappeared, leaving Helga to wonder who at the Tower of Melander—the fortress-like prison used by the Council for criminals whose families were influential enough to spare them the unpleasant Windham dungeons or who were sufficiently powerful that the Council feared to imprison within their own stronghold—could possibly hold the solution to their problem. And what it was going to cost.

* * *

Counter, block, curse, slice. Parry, curse, slice. Counter, pivot. Dodge. Slice. Godric Gryffindor's duelling tactics were highly unorthodox—even Aethrin had advised him to keep to the traditional. That is, you had a wand, the opponent had a wand. He would attack, you would counter, and slip in an attack if you could. He'd counter, then counterattack. Repeat until someone fell, preferably the enemy.

There were variations, of course. Magical brute force could overwhelm an opponent quickly—Godric had relied on that often when he was younger. Cleverness, too, could swing the balance in one's favour. Terrain could sometimes be used to advantage. Surprise was excellent, when available, for quickly ending a conflict. After all, there was a reason it was tradition: it worked—if your opponent was content with keeping his distance.

Godric parried the desperate slash of the last Muggle guard with his sabre. He threw his weight behind the motion to force the man into the path of an incoming curse. A flash of light lit the dim corridor, and he fell to the ground.

Freed of the Muggle threats, Godric could have chosen to stay back and keep this a conventional magical duel, but the tried and true wasn't quite so effective when the odds were five against one.

Two stunning spells came at him at once, with the other three wizards finishing their incantations a scant second behind. Godric dodged to one side and blocked the other with a shield charm. He raised and angled his blade to catch the next onslaught, wincing at the sudden pain as the hilt heated. This time it didn't cool immediately, and he had to grit his teeth as he fought not to let go.

Pain could be as much a weapon as clenched fist or a booted foot, so he gripped the hilt still tighter, made himself hyperaware of every burning inch of his palm, and channelled the pain into his blasting spell, releasing the curse as he charged. Three of the wizards' five hastily erected shields fell under the violent force, and those unlucky three were hurled backwards into the wall. By the time the two remaining wizards were able to bring their wands up for another attack, Godric was within melee distance.

A vicious kick dropped one wizard to his knees, and Godric brought the hilt of his sabre down on his head while the other scrambled backwards, wide-eyed, extending his wand arm shakily. Last one standing.

Godric hated these moments, at the end of the skirmishes, when there was nothing to distract him anymore and he had time to think. His thoughts always ended up in the same place. He stared at the cowering wizard for a moment, wondering if this wizard had been one of those at his brother's home. He lifted his sabre, wishing the wizard would try something, give him an excuse to release the anguish and rage he didn't dare let loose, lest it draw too much attention and cost them the advantage of surprise Harry's plan so heavily depended upon.

But there was nothing. Just the torchlight, flames captured by the dark, trailing red on his blade, flickering and glinting. He tilted the blade to catch the reflection of the man sobbing at his feet, the noise was harsh against the hushed backdrop of nearly complete silence. Slowly, he lowered the blade and released a stunning spell. Though he hadn't consciously poured extra power into the spell, it was violent enough that it knocked the wizard back, and he impacted the wall with a sickening crack.

No signal from Harry yet, he thought somewhat distractedly as he knelt by one of the fallen wizards to wipe the blade on his robes. That probably was not a good sign. It had been too long.

"Really, Godric, what does it take to curb that lamentable tendency of yours towards mercy? You only have a finite number of relatives for me to have killed, I fear, and they are a hardy lot."

Stifling a startled gasp, Godric sprang to his feet and swept his sabre into blocking position as he whirled in the direction of that too-familiar voice. Morass watched him calmly from not two metres away, seemingly unconcerned by the sabre's presence. Then again, he'd woven in mfany of the enchantments into the blade himself, and no matter how thoroughly Salazar had combed through them and rooted out the dangerous ones, they had never been certain if he'd found them all.

"I've always regretted missing your assault of Julian's keep, but this?" Morass sighed, turning one of Godric's fallen opponents over onto his back with a foot. "Where is the terrifying Gryffindor vengeance?"

"Waiting for the wizard responsible for my brother's death," he snapped. Then he let out a controlled breath, almost able to hear Salazar's reprimand: "He will attack with words first, as easily for personal amusement as a tactical manoeuvre. Whatever his purpose, don't encourage him."

Letting battle calm settle over him once more, he took a slow, cautious step back, reassessing the situation. Harry, could he still be—? Unlikely. Morass would have gone after him first. But there _was _still a small chance he hadn't. If so, and if he could delay Morass long enough, it might give Harry time to realise that something was amiss, promise be damned. As someone had once told him, the hardest part of making a promise was knowing when to break it.

"A Gryffindor failing, I think, believing that there is af separation between villains and the weapons they wield. If you disarm a wizard, do you throw the wand back at his feet so that he may pick it up again?"

Godric didn't respond, despite the peculiar feeling that the words were intended almost as friendly advice. He stood, every muscle tensed in anticipation of an attack, but moments passed in muted silence, an apprehensive _waiting_ that was somehow worse than if Morass had launched an unstoppable offence.

Then Morass disappeared, and Godric watched the empty corridor apprehensively, ready to dodge out of the way at the first sign of attack. A hazy black shape shimmered on his left. It had wrenched the wand out of his hand and disappeared by the time his sabre sliced through the space it had occupied.

Godric took another step back, waiting for Morass to reappear, which he finally did, exactly where he'd first teleported in. He pocketed Godric's wand with a smile, and then waited again, in that terrible silence that stretched his nerves taut. He tried to figure out what the game was, knew it had to be one. Morass could just as easily have grabbed Godric's arm instead of his wand and teleported them away.

The second strike was slower, and he had enough time to dodge to the side and thrust a directed shield at the blurred figure, knocking him back and giving Godric time to stand. He met a jet of molten orange-red with his blade, and gasped as pain exploded in the hand gripping the hilt, but he didn't have time to look at the damage. The fire swirled round the blade for another second before dissipating.

His gaze swept the room, halting when it fell upon two tall windows at the far end of the corridor. Godric summoned them with all his might and they shattered into thousands of sharp, glittering fragments that he surrounded himself with, investing a sliver of his attention in keeping them spinning in a dense, lethal shield capable of shredding anything that entered the space.

"Care to try again?" he challenged, sweeping his sabre in a welcoming flourish.

Morass reappeared across the room and let out a delighted laugh. "I forgot. You did duel your uncle for over ten minutes." The laugh transitioned into a slow sigh. "I quite miss duelling with him."

Godric knew that this battle would not be won by cleverness. He harboured no illusions that he could outwit Morass, decades his elder in magical combat, in a duel. His only hope was to overwhelm him with magic, until his nullifying gave to exhaustion. That was fine with Godric; his unusual magical stamina made him uniquely suited for the task. He could continue casting powerful spells long after any opponents trying to match the magical outpour had collapsed with fatigue.

He loosed the most potent spell he could think of that wouldn't kill them both in the confined space. White-blue flame left his hand in a rapidly expanding cone that reflected in the swirling glass shards, a blinding dance of light that would be beautiful in another situation, but merely distracting now.

As expected, the flames disappeared into Morass' outstretched hand, as though swallowed up, and Godric was reminded of the catch-and-throw games he and Salazar played when younger, when they would see how long they could keep one spell alive in the air. Melted glass dripped from where the fire had passed through his swirling shield, and he cursed himself for a fool.

He threw the spell's icy twin to spare the glass and followed it with an entangling charm that tore stone from the ground in rope-like tendrils that would harden into place once they gained purchase on their target. But they died under a blast of nullifying, and the ice blast suffered the same fate as the fire.

A thick cord of vines shot from Morass' wand, unusually dark, and he caught it with his sword. The vines began wrapping round it, small leaves shiny and wet with some substance Godric didn't dare let close. The glass was suffering more than the extraordinarily tough vines, unable to do more than inflict a few minute scratches. The vines crept down the blade, twisting, keeping his defence pinned down while Morass loosed another spell, a spidery-thin web that shifted between shining like the glass and disappearing into the shadows between the torches as it flew towards him.

Godric gave the sabre a great wrench, slicing against the vines, and with a sudden give, they crumbled into a fine grey powder that joined the swirling glass. The effort threw him off-balance, and he had just enough time to throw up a weave shield. The web, instead of bouncing off the shield, clung tightly to it and began pressing inwards, and he hurriedly broadened the radius of the spinning glass cyclone to shred it.

He reprimanded himself for falling into a defensive position. Summoning another cone of ice and pairing it with a wind blast to propel it more quickly, he allowed himself a moment of gratification when he saw Morass teleport away from the deadly combination rather than nullify it. The half of the room where he'd been standing was coated now in ice, and two frozen torches shattered when they fell to the ground.

Godric, who was starting to sense a pattern in his teleportation, didn't wait for Morass to reappear. He aimed his focus at a portion of the wall, and _pulled_, stretched the stone into dozens of lethal, fine-tipped spikes. Then he aimed a blast of wind at the area he expected Morass to appear, not bothering to delimit the area, and let fly just as a shimmer appeared in the air.

Morass toppled back under the violent force, and hastily thrust a hand behind him at the spiked wall. The stone immediately began to smooth and was flat again by the time his back impacted, but when he took his hand away from the wall, it left a small streak of red. He inclined his head to Godric, acknowledging that he'd drawn first blood.

Then Morass murmured an incantation that summoned a great, inky mass to the tip of his wand, which he flipped towards Godric with a sharp flick of his wrist.

Godric's reaction was nearly automatic, ingrained from years of success. He angled the sabre to catch the spell and cast a blasting spell with his free hand. But when the black material hit the blade, it didn't vanish, instead wrapping itself round the metal before slowly sinking into the blade, as though absorbed into the material. It left his hand slightly numb, and this would probably have been an excellent time for Morass to finish his game, but he kept watching—waiting for something.

Godric waited too, sabre ready, glass still circling him. Then the hilt heated so painfully he released it with a yelp of pain. As the sabre clattered to the ground, it started to glow, more brightly than the glass shards earlier, and he had to shield his eyes to avoid being blinded. The air near him grew warm for a moment, and then the light disappeared, and the sword lay quietly on the ground, exhibiting no more odd behaviour. The only lingering trace of the spell was a humming that seemed to hover in a layer just a finger's width from his skin.

"I win," Morass said softly.

It seemed a premature announcement, since Godric was yet standing and—as long as he was conscious—armed with wandless magic, but the certainty in those words gave him pause.

* * *

"Not a glamour," the narrow-faced wizard in front of me announced when his _finite incantatem _produced no change in my appearance.

I wished they'd stop casting spells on me. I had enough of a headache already, and the only reason I continued nullifying their spells was that I suspected it was all that kept Senegal from hauling me off to Morass' hideaway. Watching Senegal's jaw clench harder with each failed attempt to identify me was just a bonus. Really.

"Polyjuice," Senegal seethed. "It must be Polyjuice."

"Could be," I offered, flashing a smile that was two parts smug, one part inscrutable. Or so I guessed, judging by the bulging vein in Senegal's temple. Maybe I'd luck out after all, and he'd explode from sheer frustration.

The wizard testing me nodded slowly. "Possibly. We have a vial of Ysilf's Tears in the potions cupboard."

I didn't know what Ysilf's Tears was, but merely the thought of having to nullify a potion right now made the smile disappear from my face and reappear on Senegal's when he misinterpreted the source of my displeasure. Fine, I thought sourly. Let him gain a bit of confidence. The inevitable bout of apoplexy could be his downfall. Nearly every known case of spontaneous combustion was attributed to accidental magic triggered by severely agitated wizards. Hey, it could happen.

"Go. Be quick."

As the door opened, I couldn't prevent myself from tensing slightly at the hint of a chance to bolt. Senegal, whose attention was rarely directed anywhere but at me, caught the motion, and he shook his head. "Thinking of struggling? Please, do." He looked unsettlingly eager. "Let me bring these walls down upon your rash, young friend."

I let my muscles slacken and unclenched my fists. What was a villain, after all, without a small garnishing of insanity?

"My lord?" one of the wizards in the far corner ventured. "Perhaps we should just deliver the prisoner to the camp? You heard what Lord Morass said, he might still be dangerous."

"The prisoner isn't leaving until I know exactly who he—"

"Or she," I interjected. I was awarded with another jaw clench. "You can't be sure, right?"

"—is," Senegal continued, pretending to ignore my comment. His mouth twisted into an unpleasant smile as he spoke to me. "Your own demise is assured, of course. Prisoners Lord Morass takes a personal interest in rarely last more than a week. But I _will_ know your family, and Marcus Gryffindor's death will look a mercy next to what I do to them."

His words again failed to have their intended effect, as instead of losing heart, I imagined Senegal meeting Salazar in a dark alley and almost regretted nullifying the last spell. Salazar would make sure Senegal met a fittingly painful end.

With great reluctance, I dismissed the fantasy. That was for Godric. Senegal had shared few details of Marcus and Lavina's last moments since learning I was no Gryffindor, but his earlier eagerness to share led me to believe that those moments were as torturous as Senegal could devise. I knew what I would want, in Godric's position. And I wouldn't want anyone else taking that away from me.

But that didn't mean I couldn't take a few digs of my own at him. Vengeance was equally a Gryffindor and a Slytherin pursuit.

"Terrifying," I informed Senegal. I pursed my lips in mock thought. "So, why _doesn't_ Morass trust you? Do you usually bollocks things up this splendidly?"

Instead of being irritated by the jibe, Senegal smirked, and it was my turn to be taken aback. "Do you truly think your interference has disrupted any of my lord's plans?"

"How do _you_ define disruption?" I asked, recovering quickly. "You still haven't got Godric."

"You assume that he was the objective to begin with."

What? Then what was the point of all it, the carefully-placed ambushes, the guards ready for and alert to our intrusion? "So your objective all along was to be humiliated in front of your illustrious leader?" I won't pretend that my usual attempts at sneering make me look anything but mildly constipated, but this once, I think I carried it off pretty well. No one laughed at me, anyway. "In that case, I'm pleased I was of some assistance."

Senegal looked properly annoyed now, and I wondered idly just when pissing off enemies had become not just one more method of surviving a little longer, but a game to me as well. He mastered himself before replying. "We were aware, of course, that Godric's...visit was a possibility. But this trap was not intended for him."

Speaking of whom—yet again, I tentatively reached out with my senses, trying to locate his magical presence, but all I could tell was that he was still in the castle. After some hesitation, I searched for Morass. He was still here too. How close to Godric, I didn't know. Why he hadn't done his teleportation trick and whisked Godric back to his camp yet, I didn't know either. Then again, Morass seemed fond of toying with his prey. Perhaps that would work in our favour again, as it had in my first encounter with him. Of course, we were now down to three founders for a rescue attempt.

Senegal was waiting for my reply. Fine, I'd play the game, since he was dying to crow over his impending victory. When life offers you free information on a silver platter...well, Moody would say "test for poison," but I had trouble seeing how poisoned information could make things much worse than they already were.

"Who was the trap for?" I asked obediently.

"Come now, think." Senegal's reply was insufferably smug, and judging by the twitch one of my captors gave, I wasn't the only person to have been on the receiving end of that tone before. "Where did you get the Portkey?"

"The Council? You set a trap for a bunch of miscellaneous Lords and battle wizards?" I raised an eyebrow. "Bravo. It's a wonder you haven't won the war already."

"Surely you are aware of a certain Champion who is fond of leading offensive strikes on the Council's more...difficult opponents?"

Did he mean Lord Slytherin? I didn't know any other Champions. If so—it was certainly an ambitious plan. If your ambition was to _die_. "You can't expect me to believe that you qualify as 'difficult.' Certainly not to him. Come to think of it," I said slowly, as if the thought had just occurred to me, "if it weren't for Morass, you and all your men would have been trounced by two wizards."

Senegal couldn't manage a response, and I laughed openly. "_Two_. How exactly did you plan to survive any attack led by Lord Slytherin, let alone defeat him?"

"Not so clever, are you?" he snarled.

"Clever enough to fool you. Though I realise that isn't saying much."

"More bravado, I see. Perhaps I _have_ snagged myself a Gryffindor." He watched my face for any betraying expression. I merely smiled. "I have no desire to face Slytherin in battle. I am well aware of what the outcome would be. But my strength has never been fighting on the front lines."

With dawning comprehension, I glanced at the stone walls, and my amusement promptly vanished. Senegal nodded sharply. "I would like to see Champion Slytherin shield himself against a thousand tonnes of rock."

Okay, going quietly was definitely out of the question now. On the bright side, Senegal could only collapse the keep once, so he'd have to choose between Godric or Lord Slytherin. On the not so bright side, that still meant one of them would die.

I was spared coming up with a rejoinder by the return of Senegal's investigative lackey. "My lord, the potion."

Senegal nodded and gestured him forward. The pair of wizards restraining me tightened their grip to the point where I could barely feel my arms. I considered cooperating when the wizard brought the phial to my lips because I had nothing to fear from the potion aside from my headache worsening—which, come to think of it, _was_ something to fear. Besides, thwar—erm, _delaying_ Senegal seemed to be a winning plan so far, and I saw no reason to abandon it now.

I jerked my head away and sank my teeth into the wizard's hand. He recoiled with a startled yelp, and one of my human handcuffs twisted my arm viciously. As I gritted my jaw against the wrenching pain, I couldn't help casting Senegal's investigator a look of savage satisfaction, viciously hoping the wound would get infected.

Their second attempt was more cautious. One of the Muggle guards grabbed a fistful of my hair and used it as leverage to pry my jaw open while a different wizard poured the potion down my throat and forced me to swallow. Once finished, they stepped hastily back out of range to join their colleague, who was still nursing his injured hand. I prepared myself to nullify the potion, and was pleasantly surprised when it failed to find whatever it was searching for in my bloodstream and the magic faded away without my intervention.

I could feel the weight of everyone's intent stare as they waited for the potion to produce a reaction.

And waited.

"A bit salty," I offered finally, when the silence became too much.

Senegal didn't seem to be breathing, but just when I began to nurse a cautious optimism that I'd managed to accomplish the impossible and frustrate a man to death, he took in a harsh, ragged breath. The walls shook slightly, as though in an earthquake, and there was the slight pit-pattering as miniscule pebbles fell from the ceiling onto the floor. The tables and chairs hopped up and down in an unsteady tapping while the assembled wizards and Muggles glanced nervously at their leader.

It took several seconds for the room to stop shaking, the same number of seconds Senegal used to close the distance between us and jab a trembling finger at my chest. "You! What c—_Who are you?_"

There are many kinds of victory, though perhaps not as many as defeat. There's the victory of battle, sure, and that can be exhilarating, the thrill of living tempered by the loss of less fortunate comrades. There's the victory of escape, which is not nearly so glorious, but still victory by virtue of your enemy not defeating you. There's moral victory, the incomparable satisfaction of being able to utter those four triumphant words, "I told you so."

And there's another victory that comes when the first is out of the question, the second is slipping quickly out of your grasp, and the third is irrelevant: the savage pleasure of so greatly infuriating the enemy who has you outmanoeuvred that he loses all semblance of composure, and you know that though you may not be _free_, you are in control.

"Surely you can see," I said gently. "I am Godric Gryffindor."

I used to ponder the origin of the phrase "hopping mad." No longer. Senegal was nearly dancing with fury. "That's impossible! The potion—it must have been defective. Edgar, did you use the correct counterspells? Did you test for every glamour?"

"My lord, if one might consider an alternative explana—"

"I am not interested in alternative explanations!" Senegal shrieked. "I want to know _who that wizard is!_"

"A metamorphmagus," Edgar said quickly, not relaxing until the intensity of Senegal's glare faded somewhat. "He must be. Ysilf's Tears wouldn't work on a metamorphmagus, and neither would _finite incantatem_, as the magic invested in the self-transfiguration only lasts while the features are being alt—" He seemed to realise he was babbling and stopped. "He is a metamorphmagus, my lord. I am certain of it."

Senegal stroked the tip of his wand while considering me. "Yes, it does make sense." He levelled a nasty smile at me. "Of course, that is enough to give me your family. A Black, are you?"

The association was so unexpected, I couldn't keep my surprise from showing, and that seemed to confirm it for Senegal.

"So you see? I win, after all."

Senegal's perceived triumph restored his careful composure. Good for him. Me, I was left with the sobering realisation that my little game may have just jeopardised Sirius' existence.

* * *

Council security needed to be revised. Yet another thing to add to his eventual (and quite possibly his final) report to Lord Slytherin. Currently, a password was required to be admitted past the wards of a Lord's dwelling, after the visitor was thoroughly checked for glamours and Polyjuice. Glamours were easy to detect—there were a number of spells to penetrate them.

Polyjuice was more difficult. When time wasn't a pressing issue, the Council preferred that its members wait a full hour before permitting a wizard entrance. If it was a matter of urgency, the visitor could choose to drink one of the many potions that produced nasty side-effects if the drinker was Polyjuiced, thereby alerting the administrator of the potion to the deception.

Salazar, wearing Rowena's form, had calmly accepted one such potion from Lord Calumbri and drained it in one smooth, unconcerned gulp. An aghast Patrick found himself torn between hope that Salazar would be revealed, thus prematurely ending this misguided rescue mission, and worry about what would happen if Salazar wasn't willing to _let_ himself be stopped. He braced himself for the reaction.

But nothing happened. No convulsions, no nausea, no state fluctuations. Either the potion was sabotaged, or nullifiers could work their magic on potions as well and had neglected to tell anyone else about that particular skill. Now that he thought about it, It would certainly explain how Salazar had woken them both from an extremely potent sleep draught.

"My apologies, Lady Ravenclaw, but Champion Cailleach took charge of the prisoner as soon as she arrived. The first thing she did was transfer him to a more secure location."

Salazar nodded with remarkably convincing patience, stepping back to avoid collision with two swiftly moving green-robed Guild healers and the unconscious wizard they were levitating between them. "I see. Where might she have taken him?"

"I couldn't say for certain," Lord Calumbri admitted, face stoic as a Council healer peeled back the blackened scraps of what remained of his sleeve to examine his red, blistered arm. Patrick didn't want to imagine how powerful the fire spell must have been to bypass the fire-resistant fabric of a Council Lord's battle robes. "My guess would be Windham, but it's possible that she decided upon one of the lesser-known dungeons. Thaddeus has been known to send assassins after captured agents who possess highly sensitive information, and Windham is large enough that it's not impenetrable."

Salazar was quiet for a moment, and Patrick tried not to feel relieved just yet. Windham was probably one of the safest places outside of Hogwarts for them to be, though he'd heard rumours of an attack on the castle. He'd dismissed it as yet more over-excited gossip from the students, but Calumbri's injury and Lord Slytherin's worn, fatigued appearance earlier—to say nothing of the disturbing number of wounded being ferried across the room—suggested strongly that Morass was on the move.

He'd been hesitant to ask Salazar earlier, afraid to provoke him. He still wasn't quite sure just what constituted an "obstruction" to him. Given his current state, that of tension coiled upon tension with a few knots thrown in for good measure, it truly could be something as mild as a question. Slytherins could read interpretations into your words that you hadn't even realized you'd put there. Or meant to.

"Where else might she have taken him? Solaria's keep? Tremaine's?"

The healer began rubbing burn salve on Calumbri's arm, and Patrick withheld a sympathetic wince. He knew how that stung. When the Council Lord spoke, however, his voice was impressively void of any indication of discomfort. "Tremaine's stronghold is a possibility, considering its inaccessibility. Or Champion Slytherin's fortress." Patrick marvelled that Salazar could actually tense further. "Even Morass respects those wards."

"Hardly surprising," Salazar muttered, relaxing slightly. "He had a hand in constructing them."

Calumbri's face registered the same surprise Patrick knew had to visible on his own. "Did he really? By the gods, why hasn't Champion Slytherin changed them?"

Salazar's faint, satisfied smile more than answered the question. "He has since made...modifications. You can be certain that if Morass were ever to try deconstructing them based on what he recalls from building them, the wards would accomplish in a few seconds what the Council has failed to do for nearly a decade."

"Well." Calumbri, looking like he wasn't sure if he should leap to the Council's defence or not, finally settled for changing the subject. "It's unlikely you will find either right now. Tremaine was part of the group sent to reinforce the defences at Wighton. And Champion Slytherin, last I knew, was occupied with repelling a second attack on the Order of Healers long enough to evacuate the survivors." He nodded at a green-garbed Healer hurrying past with an armful of potions, bandages, and salves. "They've stationed themselves here for now to care for the wounded."

"The Order of Healers again?" Salazar asked, frowning. Then he shook his head. "We have no choice but to beg luck's favour. Do you have a Portkey to Tremaine's stronghold?"

Patrick tried not to let his disappointment show. After all, he consoled himself, Lord Tremaine's couldn't be much unsafer. And if they couldn't find this prisoner Salazar was so intent on interrogating, well, then it was terrible bad luck, that, and they'd have to wait for Lord Slytherin to accomplish what Patrick knew was well within his capabilities. Salazar acted as though this were the first time Godric had found himself in trouble! Or was he more concerned about the—as far as he knew—untested Harry Evans?

Yet again, he found his thoughts wandering to Hogwarts' newest (and highly irritating) addition. Just how could Evans be related to the Slytherin family, and why he was so bloody important? Other than the obvious reason that unsupervised, he was likely as not to reduce the whole of Hogwarts to a heap of charred rubble with his antics.

"Yes, but I would advise that you remain at the school. I know that with Slytherin's son there, there is little possibility of an attack, but many a Lord has confessed himself relieved to know that his children are safe at Hogwarts." He flexed his burnt arm, watching as the split skin began to heal. "I will freely admit to being one of them."

"Unfortunately, that is not a possibility at this time."

The Council Lord's brow furrowed. "This mission of yours—it has something to do with Senegal?"

Salazar nodded. "I would gladly explain, had we time to spare."

"I understand. Let me find that Portkey for you." He hurried out of the greeting chamber, returning half a minute later with a small, silver brooch. "Here. The incantation is the same as the name of the destination."

A subtle test. Council Lords were very fond of those.

"Thank you, Cerres," Salazar murmured, accepting the Portkey with one of Rowena's sweet smiles. It made dread pool in Patrick's stomach. "We will activate the Portkey outside of the wards. We wouldn't want to introduce any unnecessary vulnerabilities."

"I am glad to have been of use." Calumbri studied them soberly. "Be careful. Senegal is a very capable wizard."

"No," Salazar stated, hand resting lightly on his wand's sheath. "A foolish one."

* * *

The ice-covered portion of the hall was already beginning to melt. Godric glanced down at the sword lying on ground with deceptive innocence, unable to help but feel like an old, trusted friend had turned against him, even if under the influence of a spell. He flexed his hand cautiously and gave it a cursory examination. Though tender, the skin was blistered rather than burnt, which was one small mercy. Morass was watching him still, infuriatingly calm and patient, but for _what_?

"It won't burn you again," Morass commented. "You may as well take it up."

Godric wasn't in the mood to guess whether he spoke the truth, nor was he feeling inclined to test the theory, so he backed up a little more, felt the wall press against his robes, and leaned against it to rest as he tried to decide upon his next move. The last of the rotating glass collapsed to the floor with a rain of musical _clinks, _and suddenly he longed to join it.

Morass put away his wand, but Godric wasn't fool enough to think it would hinder his defence significantly should he decide to attack then. "I will offer you two choices. You may continue to fight me. If so, I caution that you will swiftly find this to be an unpleasant undertaking."

He said nothing, catching his breath, trying to decide which spell would be powerful enough to throw Morass off-balance. There were still several he could use from the spatial-distortion class of magic, which, Salazar has confided to him, nullifiers had trouble handling. True, such spells required more time and concentration to cast and maintain, and would leave him especially vulnerable to attack without the sword to act as a shield, but he could feel his options narrowing the longer he waited.

As if guessing the direction of his thoughts, Morass smiled. "Though I certainly do not doubt your enthusiasm, I strongly advise you to choose the second option."

That alone was enough to tell Godric that probably he wouldn't much care for it, but playing along would give him time to gather the necessary focus to cast a directional warping charm. "And what would that be?"

"Pick up the sword," Morass said, and Godric felt his gaze drawn unwillingly to the fallen weapon. "And call your cousin to you."

"Call him..." Godric tore his eyes from it and narrowed them at Morass. "What do you mean?"

"Ah, I thought he might have been reluctant to share that capability with you." Morass walked over to the sabre and picked it up, examining the blade. "The blood magic does more than allow the two of you to communicate through the sword and locket—Salazar thought it prudent that we incorporate the ability to turn the sword into a temporary Portkey, given your propensity for seeking out danger."

Morass paused briefly, with a startled expression, to look up at the ceiling—past it, his stare growing unfocussed like Salazar's when he was sweeping an area with his nullifying senses. Godric took a deep breath and held it, trying to recover from the nasty surprise of Morass' revelation. After all, Salazar had never actually _used_ the sword in such a manner. He shouldn't really feel so irritated by what was simply Salazar's paranoid way of expressing his love.

An aggrieved sigh escaped Morass as his focus snapped back to his present surroundings. "If the stone-working talent weren't so rare... Well." Shaking his head, he granted Godric the full weight of his attention once more. "It was too tempting for me not to provide myself with a backdoor connection of my own, but I soon discovered that wasn't sufficient." Morass smiled ruefully at him, but the intensity of his stare was such that Godric found himself tensing again. "The foundation of the magic is the blood connection between you, so I require your cooperation to persuade the magic to obey me."

His reply was immediate. "No."

"No? I'm certain I could convince you otherwise, given the proper...incentives. But I fear that Senegal's keep is ill-equipped for that." Morass' careless shrug reminded him of Harry, and despair made him slump for a moment. "Unless you are willing to trade for Senegal's death? I will even grant your sister's safe return."

The offer had a cruel edge that made it more like a taunt, a barbed reminder that Godric had failed not only in his purpose for coming here, but had failed Salazar too, and Hogwarts. He thought of his brother, and the injustice of allowing his murderer to live filled him with a bitter anger that lodged in his chest. And his sister, her life nothing but a bartering coin in Morass' hands, one he could choose to toss aside at any time if he judged that she was of no further use.

"Then strike," Morass said.

It took every ounce of his training, but Godric pushed his fears and regrets down where they were only small whispers in the background of his thoughts, and began gathering the power for the warping charm. When he felt his concentration narrowed to a fine enough point, he raised his hand and lashed out with magic—

And an agony such that he had never dreamed could exist stole his breath, leaving him unable to even scream. It dropped him to his knees, the needle-sharp pricks of the glass piercing his skin through the worn material of his robes so minor in comparison that they went unnoticed. He was burning, flames of pain raging on the outside and sinking inwards, and the worst was perhaps that his awareness of every screaming nerve didn't dull under the onslaught, remained just as crystalline-hard as his focus before—

Something took hold of his arm, and then a hand was moving up and down his back in gentle strokes. As the pain receded, in agonisingly slow increments, Godric became aware that it was Morass soothing him, sending waves of nullifying magic to fight the magic twisting inside of him, but he was too dazed to struggle.

"Very good," Morass murmured. "I think he'll hear you now."

* * *

Salazar studied the looming Windham Castle with the wary intent of a dueller facing an unfamiliar opponent, and Patrick no longer fooled himself that their journey would end safely there. Tremaine's fortress had proved a waste of time that they could ill afford, and the setback hadn't sweetened Salazar's disposition, a feat Patrick was beginning to suspect was impossible. Tremaine should count himself lucky to have been called away to battle, he thought with something like envy. Salazar had been forced to content himself with terrorising the household staff, who hastily informed them that Cailleach's last prisoner transfer had been over a fortnight ago.

"Helga is there," he said finally. "I can't detect my father, which must be the first time tonight aught has gone in our favour. We can use the Lords' entrance; the sentries should know Rowena by sight."

"Actually—" Patrick stopped, uncertain if his input would be welcome. When Salazar didn't snap, he continued. "We could use the guards' entrance. It's not as closely watched. I mean, battle wizards are a fairly tight lot, and we monitor our own comings and goings, with none of the fuss you get at the main gate, or even the Lords' entrance."

Salazar frowned somewhat distractedly as he drew a series of arcane symbols in the air with his wand that made the castle wards light up briefly, but the expression didn't seem overly critical. "Rowena's passage will still draw unwelcome attention, perhaps even more so if she is seen attempting to cloak her arrival."

"Um. Well, it isn't that unusual for me to—escort Rowena. Through this the entrance."

That was enough to break his concentration. "At night?"

"Um."

He was spared replying, because Salazar froze suddenly and whirled away from the castle with a hiss of surprise. Patrick squinted at the south-east horizon to see what was so startling, but there was nothing that way except yet more darkness and starlight. Then he looked at Salazar, and the question died on his tongue. He was staring into the dark with an intensity that creased his brow, and even in the dim light from the castle's distant torches, Patrick could tell that the colour had gone from his face.

"Give me your arm," he said, his voice greatly strained by something. "Now!"

Patrick extended his arm and winced at the strength of the hand that gripped it. "You've found them?"

"Godric, at least. He just lit up like a damned heliopath." Salazar took a ragged breath, and Patrick braced himself for a jolting shift of disapparation that didn't come. "No." Salazar exhaled slowly, letting go of his arm. "No, the trap is baited now. He'll be waiting."

He reached into his robes and withdrew the remaining murky brown phial. Polyjuice, Patrick now knew. Salazar closed his eyes for a moment, and Rowena's face twisted and melted away in a manner that he found profoundly disturbing. Removing the stopper and tossing it aside, Salazar pulled a hair from his head and dropped it into the potion, swirling the phial as its contents burbled in frantic reaction.

The phial was thrust in his face, and Salazar favoured him with a darkly ironic smile. "Drink this."

It was unpleasant, from the taste to the way he could feel bones and sinew stretching, hair growing, skin shifting. When the change was finished, he transfigured his robes to match Salazar's, and then looked to him for further direction.

"Hold still," Salazar commanded, pointing his wand at Patrick's chest, its tip just barely touching the fabric of his robes. The tip began to glow with a pale silvery light that flowed into Patrick, the sensation cold and vaguely intrusive. "I apologise. Polyjuice is better for fooling a nullifier than a glamourie, but Morass will not be fooled by appearance alone. This should help."

"Am I the distraction again?" he asked.

"A limited one, at best. All Morass need do is cast one spell... Well. Better than nothing. We shall remain together for now, but be prepared to move quickly. I doubt Morass will have kept Godric and Harry together." Salazar seemed genuinely calm now that he had a direction. "Are you ready?"

Patrick stared at him for a moment, wondering if it would come to that, that he would be able to protect only one of his charges, and how he could possibly decide when that time came. "Yes," he said wearily.

* * *

He was still on the floor, the glass fragments were still digging into his legs, and Morass was still well within stabbing distance. The sword was beyond his physical reach, however, and after his most recent experience with wandless magic, he was reluctant to attempt summoning it to him. His hand gave an involuntary twitch, and he clenched it with a shudder. He could feel the same humming force from earlier vibrating the air surrounding him, and every time he merely thought about calling upon his wandless magic, it closed in and started dancing across his skin, and it took half a minute for the field to retract.

That left his dagger, but shifting his legs to get at the ankle sheath would almost certainly betray his intentions. Once he'd recovered enough to do more than concentrate solely on breathing, he'd noticed that Morass' attention frequently wandered to the upper north section of the keep, where he assumed Harry was doing his absolute best to stall the inevitable.

He waited until one such moment, and moved his legs so that they were no longer pressed against the glass, scooting back as far as Morass' hold on his arm would allow him. This earned him a piercing stare, but he kept his gaze lowered to floor, trying to look defeated and submissive, which shouldn't be this hard, with his back all but literally to the wall and himself literally in the enemy's grasp...

"Godric, I sometimes must wonder if you enjoy pain." Morass sounded amused, exasperated, and genuinely curious, leaving him to marvel that Salazar had survived his apprenticeship as relatively sane as he had.

Godric brushed back a strand of hair with his free hand, letting it then fall casually to rest on his knee. "That would depend on whose it is."

"I was so certain the magic backlash would incapacitate you for at least another five minutes." There was a calculating edge to his stare now that raised Godric's hackles. "Perhaps it would be better to stun you until Salazar arrives."

He didn't need to feign dismay at the reminder that Salazar was almost surely on his way. Bad enough that revenge had turned to defeat, it was worse to know he would be the lure that drew Salazar into Morass' net. He gritted his teeth against helpless anger, knew he couldn't afford a wandless incident, but despite his best attempts to calm himself, a shock jolted him and travelled up and down his body.

"Careful," Morass chided him. "If you trigger another backlash, I won't be recovered enough to force it back." Godric shuddered again and felt Morass chuckle in response, but he fell silent suddenly, and this time his attention wasn't on the upper north side of the keep, but below. "Two...? Magical doubles are quite popular today."

While his attention was so thoroughly focussed elsewhere, Godric let his hand drop down, brushing against the back of his shin, encountering a few glass shards that had pierced the fabric of his robes and lodged in tightly. His fingers found the hilt of his dagger.

Salazar rounded the corridor and stopped to take in the scene. Godric was afraid to imagine how he must look to have prompted the deadly expression on Salazar's face. Or—he thought it was Salazar. That was a difficult look to reproduce.

"How delightful to see you again, Salazar. It's been too long," Morass said, appearing rather unconcerned that only one Salazar had shown and very certain that he was the right one. "I believe I have something of yours." He touched the tip of his wand lightly against Godric's throat.

"You wouldn't dare," Salazar said quietly.

"I wouldn't need to," Morass replied. "I will teleport him away from here the instant I suspect you intend to do anything other than cooperate."

"Harry?"

"Not for trade."

Godric slowly drew the dagger from the sheath, keeping the motion as minimal as possible.

"What are your terms?"

"You will surrender and accompany me back to my camp. In return, I will free Godric. I may even, if I am feeling generous, remove the curse that is interfering with his wandless magic." Morass could afford to be generous, Godric thought soberly. He still had Cassandra.

"You are willing to risk the chance that I am the double?" Salazar asked.

"I doubt you would send anyone else to face me. That would be excessively cruel, even for you. But there is a simple way to be certain." Morass pulled Godric to his feet, and he swayed for moment as weakness overwhelmed him, but he kept his grip on the dagger tight. "Nullify the next spell I cast, or we leave now, and I indulge my curiosity about the nature of Gryffindor wandless magic for a full day before I make you this offer again, and Salazar," Morass lowered his voice, "the last time I wished to examine a Gryffindor's magic, I had Senegal collapse a building on top of him. It was very instructive."

He removed his wand from Godric's throat and aimed a stunning spell at Salazar, which he caught in his off hand and threw at a wall. Morass repositioned his wand. "Now I know."

Salazar loosened his grip on his wand, his arm relaxing, tension draining. He was going to take the offer, Godric thought with a dizzying horror, and he narrowed his eyes at his cousin. No. He tilted the dagger so that it briefly caught the torchlight and flashed. No.

Salazar stared at him, and Godric realised that his cousin was trembling now, so slightly that he'd almost missed it, his hands the only part of his body that betrayed him. His eyes were eerily calm, and lingered on his face, as though committing it to memory.

It was a gesture of trust. And goodbye, if it came to that. A threat: don't you dare fail. And a promise: if you do, I will find you.

Godric gripped the dagger and smiled fiercely in response.

* * *

Curiosity and pride satisfied, Senegal seemed to recall that I was not, in fact, here solely as an object of frustration. He tossed the stone Portkey up into the air and caught it smoothly. It was such a pitiful attempt at appearing suavely competent I felt embarrassed for him. And mildly insulted that I'd actually been captured by someone who was, in all probability, Gilderoy Lockhart's distant ancestor. Sirius would laugh his arse off if he could see me right now.

"Bring him here."

And that was the sound of the last grain of sand hitting the bottom of the hourglass. Bugger. The two wizards holding me dragged me over to Senegal, while I fought my growing panic to come with a new plan. Struggling wasn't an option, not until I'd got rid of Senegal. Could I take him out quickly enough? I had no wand, and my wandless magic was weak. At most, I could maybe set his robes on fire, and that was only if I didn't distract myself and accidentally target _mine_ instead.

Senegal seized my arm the instant I was close enough, smug now that he could afford to be. "Give my regards to Thaddeus. I'm certain the two of you will have become quite well-acquainted by the time someone takes pity and ends your torment."

His posturing barely even registered as my thoughts raced. There was only one thing I could try. The instant I considered it, I nearly dismissed it because it was so insane, so bloody suicidal that I'd have to be half mad to try it. But I thought about Godric, how even with my fuzzy, unfocused nullifying senses, I could now see him as clearly as if he were in the room with me. I thought about what that meant, and about Salazar, fuming back at the castle or already chasing after us. I didn't dare look to see if he was already here.

I thought about what would happen when Morass had both Godric and me.

When Senegal activated the Portkey, I was ready. I lashed out with a wave of nullifying magic. As the blast reached the flashing blue stone, time began to slow and then, as if suddenly recognising my handiwork, stopped entirely.

I could see the magic now in full detail, the threads I'd always assumed were purely metaphorical: hair-fine and rope-thick, pale silver and charcoal black, everything in between. Could see the thread tying me to Senegal, glowing a faint green, leading far off. If I could just detach it...but it was hopelessly entangled with the other threads, and yanking at it would bring all the surrounding networks of thread down with me.

Sod it. I grabbed a fistful of threads and yanked.

The green glow dissipated and the nearby strands went dark. Time reasserted itself, and for a second, it felt like I was shifting between two planes, reality and the strange shadow-weave. Then there was a harsh _snap_ that I felt more than heard, and I was back in the room with the hideous tapestries and uncomfortable-looking chairs, except it felt like every bone in my body had been broken five different ways and then hastily glued back together by someone with only a passing familiarity with how the human body was organised, and then they'd finally decided to set the whole thing on fire to remove evidence of the horrible error and—just—_Merlin's balls. On a roasting spit._

It hurt. It _hurt_, so badly I couldn't register anything beyond that. I could hear someone screaming, and realised somewhere deep within the recesses of my subconscious that it must be me.

* * *

While Morass' attention was on Salazar, Godric twisted against the grip on his arm. He struck at Morass with the dagger in his free hand, who reacted with unanticipated swiftness and jerked aside. The dagger only grazed his side, though deeply enough draw blood. Godric didn't waste breath swearing and prepared to swing the weapon again, but Morass responded first, hitting him with a spell that tore the dagger violently from his hand and left him stunned for a moment.

Before he could recover, Morass yanked his arm and placed him in the path of any spell Salazar might think to cast. Godric locked eyes with his cousin but there was no time for apologies or goodbyes, because then the room around him flickered and began to fade out of sight as Morass teleported them away.

But there was an elastic snap, and they reappeared back in the keep, a meter above the ground. As they fell to the floor, a scream swept through the castle, inhumanly loud, and he saw Salazar recoil as though struck. The fall dislodged Morass' hold on him, and Godric rolled away while Salazar gathered himself and attacked.

Morass nullified the curse and flickered as though trying to teleport again, but he rematerialised only a little further down the corridor, though his offset from the ground was only a few centimetres this time. He stumbled, regaining his footing, and nullified another spell. Violet light, Godric realised. The obliterating curse. Salazar was not playing.

"I would attend to the child," Morass advised Salazar, his breathing slightly winded. He was forced to nullify a rapid series of strikes, and spoke between flashes of purple light. "While there is still a chance of saving him."

Salazar faltered for a second, and Morass seized the opportunity to disappear again, but this time it was with the crack of apparation and he did not reappear. Godric looked to Salazar. "Is he...?"

"The wards are in tatters. He tore a hole and—" Salazar froze then and began sprinting for the stairs. "He's still here. He's gone to Harry."

* * *

Patrick stepped over another unconscious wizard, kicked one who was stirring, and hopped over another as he navigated his way through the room to Harry. He wasn't screaming anymore, because Patrick had stunned him, afraid that whatever unseen torment had torn that terrible sound from him would do permanent damage to—something. Other than Patrick's frazzled nerves.

He spotted a blue-robed figure lying face-up near Harry, and identified him as Delis Senegal, the bastard who had set into motion the chain of events that had brought them to this. Patrick had to resist the urge to kick him just for the satisfaction it would bring. Instead, he knelt down by Harry, trying to figure out how to help. His hands were his own again, leaving him to guess that whatever had preceded his arrival must have stripped the effects of the Polyjuice from him.

A _pop_ sounded behind him and the last person he wanted it to be was Lord Morass himself, so naturally, that was who it turned out to be. He felt Morass examine him, weigh the threat he posed, and dismiss him in the space of a second. Patrick recognised this just in time to erect a hasty shield to absorb the curse that flew at him.

Morass considered him a bit longer this time. "Ah. I remember you now. One of Warin's personal picks."

Patrick grabbed Harry's limp arm, unsure how he meant to escape from a wizard even the Circle of Champions feared. He put up another shield, and the curse that smashed against it knocked Harry and him back several metres. His wand hand shaking, he cast another shield charm, and this time, the impacting spell only threw him back, away from Harry.

He struggled to his feet, saw that Morass was within reach of Harry, and cast a desperate summoning charm. Harry sailed across the room, colliding with him, and he spared a brief moment to consider how ridiculous this would look had anyone been watching.

No curses followed immediately, and he realised that Morass was reluctant to injure Harry, so he put up another shield charm from his position on the floor, using Harry as a secondary shield though it went against every fibre of his being to do so.

The sound of pounding footsteps saved him. He straightened to sitting position, and froze under Morass' glare, saw his death written in those eyes, and then the door disintegrated. Salazar burst through, Godric in tow, and Morass reached down to grab Senegal and disapparated with him before Salazar could do more than raise his wand.

More footsteps sounded, and Salazar turned his focus to the door while Godric nicked a sword from one of the armoured Muggles lying on the floor, though how a Muggle weapon could be a greater aid than his absurdly powerful battle magic Patrick couldn't figure out.

The person who appeared in the doorway next, however, caused Salazar to lower his wand with a muffled oath and Godric to stare. "_Helga_?"

Then another figure stepped into view, his black battle robes torn and charred in places, hair windblown to a wild mess, bandaged hand aiming his wand at the floor, coincidentally not that far from where Patrick sat with Harry. Taking Patrick's cue, Godric inched slightly to the left to put Salazar between himself and the preternaturally calm Lord Slytherin.

"The rest of Senegal's men?" he asked mildly.

Salazar studied his father curiously, his stare dropping to the bandaged hand and lingering there for a moment before he replied. "Godric took care of them."

An unreadable expression crossed Lord Slytherin's face. "Then we are finished here." He turned to a wizard waiting out in the hall. "Tell Orval to begin transporting Senegal's men to Windham. Contact Cailleach to let her know to expect a large influx of new prisoners. I will be personally escorting my son and his...entourage to Hogwarts." The man nodded and left quickly. Patrick didn't blame him. "Helga, see to Harry."

Patrick surrendered the unconscious Harry to her and she immediately began sweeping her wand over him and studying the colors lighting up under its tip.

Lord Slytherin's attention turned back to his son and nephew. "You will explain to me, in full detail and omitting nothing, exactly what happened and what pale imitation of thought led you to believe that it was necessary, much less permitted, for either of you to _knowingly and willingly _step into what you must have known or strongly expected to be a trap fashioned by Morass himself."

Godric looked fixedly at the ground. Salazar wrinkled his brow, as though trying to decide which filter to apply to the truth to best make it palatable to his father.

"_Now_."

It was, Patrick thought with mixed relief and trepidation, going to be a long trip back to Hogwarts.

* * *

Remind me never again to say "the next chapter shouldn't take as long," because that's just inviting trouble. I apologize to everyone who had to suffer through the long wait.


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